“Why, that Mevrouw likes being out by herself of nights. At the tavern they were calling her ‘night-bird.’”
“I know what they used to call her,” grinned the fresh-faced young footman. “It used to be Baroness Nobody.”
“Oh, every one knows that. But hold your tongue. The Jonker Gerard never would allow a whisper on the box. He seemed to hear you in the middle of the night.”
“The Jonker Gerard was a real gentleman,” replied the footman, crossing his arms.
Ursula, as the carriage neared her old home, looked out anxiously, seeking for the light above the hall-door. It was gone; yet she knew her father to be in the habit of sitting up late. She lifted the carriage-clock to the ray from one of the lanterns: a quarter-past eleven.
“Let me out,” she said; “I will go round to the back.”
For a moment she stood, in the chill night, by the study window, listening. She knew perfectly well that she was acting foolishly; but that seemed no reason for leaving off.
“I must do it to-night,” she said; “I cannot sleep until it is done.”
She knocked at the window, timidly, terrified at the prospect of meeting with no response. The soughing of the trees struck cold upon her heart.