Bureau Drawer Week drew toward its fateful close, and hearts beat high with hope or low with discouragement; all but Honor’s, which found it impossible to be deeply interested. One day she and Patricia were in Stephanie’s room, discussing the matter—in whispers, for it was “quiet time.” Stephanie confessed that she “perished with desire” for the prize. It was so charming: hush! she had tried on the thimble, and it fitted her to a marvel. “And Maria has had it two years running! What can she do with three work-boxes?”
“It isn’t the box, it’s the getting it!” said Honor. “I wish there were two prizes, Stephanie. Of course I want you to have one, and your drawer is lovely; but it means so much to Maria, and—and she is so forlorn, poor thing!”
“She is a poor-spirited granny,” said Patricia, “but you are right, Moriole, and I hope she will get it. You can get the arithmetic prize, Stephanie!” she added wickedly. “Hark! what’s that? Some one in your room, Honor!”
Stephanie’s room, as we know, was next to Honor’s. The three girls listened intently. They heard a light step, then a soft sliding sound with a squeak at the end.
“Some one is opening my top-drawer!” whispered Honor. “There is no mistaking that squeak. Is it Madame, do you suppose, or our Sister?”
“Easy enough to find out!” Patricia bent quietly forward.
“Patricia! You are not going to look through the keyhole?”
“And why not? It’s Stephanie’s keyhole, I believe! If she doesn’t mind—Well! did-you-ever?”
She gazed a moment; then silently beckoned to Honor.
Honor was a human child of fourteen; if the keyhole was Stephanie’s, the bureau in the room beyond was her own. She sank on her knees, and applied her eye to the keyhole.