"Is that you, Miss Ermie?" said Susy. "I thought you were never coming—never. I thought you had forsook me, just when I am so bad, and like to die."
"It's me, Susy," said Marjorie, coming forward. "Ermengarde's away, so I came."
"Oh, I don't want you, Miss Marjorie," said Susan.
She flung herself back on the bed, and taking up the sheet threw it over her face. Marjorie went up to the bedside.
"There ain't a bit of use in your staying, Miss Marjorie," continued Susy, in a high-pitched, excited voice. "You don't know nothing 'bout me and the picture. You ain't no good at all."
Marjorie's heart gave a great bound. The picture! That must surely mean the broken miniature. "Basil, dear Basil," whispered the little girl, "you may not have to live down all the horrid, wicked, cruel suspicion after all."
"I wish you'd go away, Miss Marjorie," said Susy from under the bedclothes. "I tell you miss, you can't do me one bit of good. You don't know nothing about me and the picture."
"But I can hold your hand, Susy," said Marjorie; "and if your hand is hot, mine is lovely and cool. If you're restless, let me hold your hand. I often do so to baby if he can't sleep, and it quiets him ever so."
Susy did not respond for a minute or two, but presently her poor little hot hand was pushed out from under the bedclothes. Marjorie grasped it firmly. Then she took the other hand, and softly rubbed the hot, dry fingers. Susy opened her burning eyes, flung aside the sheet, and looked at her quiet little visitor.
"You comfort me a bit, miss," she said. "I don't feel so mad with restlessness as I did when you came in."