“I am going to do something which I shall be punished for. I am going to spend to-night, if necessary, with Maggie Howland.”
“Is she ill, Neta? Ought we to send for the doctor?”
“Oh no, she is not a bit ill in that way. Good-night, Lucy; I felt I ought to tell you.”
Aneta continued her way until she reached Maggie’s room. It was now past midnight. The quiet and regular household had all retired to bed, and Maggie had feverishly begun to prepare for departure. She knew how to let herself out. Once out of the house, she would be, so she felt, through the worst part of her trouble. She was not unacquainted with the ways of this cruel world, and thought that she might be taken in at some hotel, not too far away, for the night. Early in the morning she would go by train to some seaside place. From there she would embark for the Continent. Beyond that she had made no plans.
Maggie was in the act of removing her father’s treasures from the tin boxes when, without any warning, the room-door was opened, and Aneta, in her pure white dress, with her golden hair surrounding her very fair face, entered the room.
“Oh!” said Maggie, dropping a curiously made cross in her confusion and turning a dull brick-red. “Whatever have you come about?”
Aneta closed the door calmly, and placed her lighted candle on the top of Maggie’s chest of drawers. 159
“I hoped you were in bed and asleep,” she said; “but instead of that you are up. I have made arrangements to spend the night with you. It is bitterly cold. We must build up the fire.”
Maggie felt wild.
Aneta did not take the slightest notice. She knelt down and put knobs of fresh coal on the fire. Soon it was blazing up merrily. “That’s better,” she said. “Now, don’t you think a cup of cocoa each would be advisable?”