“How stupid of me to have forgotten about her,” she thought with compunction. “She ought to have been in bed and to have taken her cocoa an hour ago. Oh! now I remember; she got a letter which upset her very much and went out. Dear, dear! where can she be?”
Leslie went to the window and flung it open; she put her head out, and tried to peer into the darkness; but the moon had already set, and she could not see more than a couple of yards in front of her. She ventured to call Annie’s name softly; there was no reply. She shut the window.
“There is nothing for it but for me to go and look for her,” she said to herself. “She is a very queer, erratic creature; and that letter—there was bad news in that letter. Poor girl, she spoke of it as cold water to the thirsty; she looked when I saw her last as if it had half killed her. What can she be doing out by herself? Yes, I must find her without delay.”
Leslie left the room; but she had scarcely gone a dozen paces down the corridor before she met Annie returning. Annie’s eyes were very bright, her cheeks were no longer pale, and there was a brilliant color in them. She did not take the least notice of Leslie; but, going into the
room, shut the door. Leslie opened it and followed her.
“Dear me, Annie!” she said, “I was quite frightened about you.”
“Don’t begin,” said Annie.
“Don’t begin! What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t want you to begin to ask questions. I am going to get into bed, and to remain perfectly quiet, and you are not to ask me one question about anything. I want to sleep. I walked up and down as fast as ever I could outside in order to make myself sleepy. Don’t talk to me, Leslie; don’t say a single word. I shall go off to sleep—that is all I care for.”
“But your letter, dear?”