“But—but you forgive Maria?” cried Honor. “You’ll take her back, Stephanie? You can’t have me without her!”
“I’ll take twenty Marias!” whispered Stephanie, “to get back my own, own Moriole!”
Ting! ting! went the bell. Lights out! One parting hug; off flew Stephanie; back went the book under the mattress; out went the candle. Honor nestled down in bed with a warm heart, for the first time since leaving the Châlet.
“Thank you, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!” she murmured. “You have blessed the bed that I lie on!” and she fell happily asleep, to dream of the Twins and Zitli.
Never yet in all her peaceful years had Honor had two broken nights in succession; but there is a first time for everything.
Late in this second night she was again waked suddenly; not by sobbing this time: not by any noise; all was still. What was it, then? Why was she sitting up in bed, frightened? She sniffed: a strange smell was in her nostrils: acrid, pungent—fire? She was springing out of bed, when she heard some one enter the next room hurriedly; heard a smothered cry; heard the window flung violently open; heard her own name called, low but urgently.
“Honor! Honor! come!”
Honor flew, to find the strange odor pouring out of Maria’s room; to see, by the moonlight which flooded it, Maria lying apparently unconscious, and bending over her, dragging her from the bed—Patricia!
“Help me get her to the window!” said Patricia briefly. “So! Now call the Sister, and get my salts! Quick!”