In front of the bureau stood—Maria Patterson! She had pulled the drawer out to its fullest extent, and was contemplating its disorder, which certainly was extreme. Honor had recently been hunting for her purse, with disastrous results. A breathless moment passed; Honor’s heart was beating fast. Could it—no, it could not be possible! Maria was not a thief. But what was she about?
Swiftly, noiselessly, Maria’s hands moved here and there. She was taking everything out, laying everything on the bed. Now—what was that in her hand? Her own silk duster, one of her prized possessions. She wiped the drawer out carefully, prodding the corners with a hairpin wrapped in a fold of the silk. She examined the duster anxiously, evidently seeking a speck of dust; finding none, she began to lay the various articles back methodically, arranging them in piles with exquisite precision. Her plain face was illuminated with a look which made it almost lovely.
The tears were rolling down Honor’s cheeks. Silently, she beckoned to Patricia, and then in turn to Stephanie. They looked and drew back. Patricia’s eyes were very bright, one might almost have thought with tears, only of course she never cried; Stephanie’s were large and round. She opened her lips to speak, but Honor made her an imperious sign to be quiet. Still as mice they listened; heard the squeak of the closing drawer; heard a contented sniff—poor Maria always sniffed, whatever she did—heard the door shut, the quiet footstep retreat along the corridor.
For a moment the three girls stood looking at one another. Then, before the others could speak, Honor flung open the door between the two rooms; flashed bird-like to the bureau; pulled open the drawer; scattered the contents right and left, “as if she were making a pudding!” said Stephanie afterward; flashed back again, and closing the door noiselessly, faced her companions, breathless, but with a shining face.
“Hush!” she whispered. “I thought I heard our Sister’s door open. Listen! Yes, she comes. I was only just in time.”
Again they listened; again heard a quiet footstep enter Honor’s room; again heard the squeak of the top drawer. Silence, and then a gentle sigh, a murmured, “Alas! what to do with this dear child?” Then once more the sounds of closing and departure.
“Moriole!” gasped Stephanie, “You must let me speak, or I shall burst! Why—why have you done this? Have your senses left you?”
Honor stared. “I thought I heard her door open; I was right, you see. I had to get it done before she came.”
“Done! for example! Get it undone, you mean! It was done, and perfectly done, by this poor Maria. For friendship she did it; I find that beautiful, I. You destroy her work, restore the confusion as of a rat’s nest—finally, will you tell me why?”
“Stephanie,” Honor spoke gently, “it was my drawer, not Maria’s. I couldn’t let the Sister think I had put it in that beautiful order. I hadn’t, you see.”