It was the work of a moment for the laughing mother and aunt to lift up the bureau and release the two rogues, while Mildred sprang to the wardrobe, unlocked it and took the sobbing Fan in her arms.
"You poor dear, who fastened you in there?"
"Cyril did. He said I stealed and must go to jail. And—and I was 'f'aid it would des tumble over; it shaked so when I tried to det out."
"The naughty boy!" cried Mildred, flashing an indignant glance at him as he and Don crept from the drawer, straightened themselves and stood up looking very much abashed and ill at ease.
"Mother, I do think Cyril ought to be punished."
"I didn't hurt her," he muttered, hanging his head; "and I was goin' to let her out 'fore long. And we didn't mean to tumble the bureau over. Did we Don?"
"No; it dus went yight over its ownse'f," chimed in the little brother. "Pease, mamma we's doin to be dood boys now."
"You might have been very much hurt if the chair had not been where it was," she said, composing her features and speaking with becoming gravity, "I am very thankful for your escape, and you must never do such things again. Especially never lock each other into a wardrobe or closet," she added sitting down, drawing Fan to her side and caressing her tenderly, while Miss Stanhope and Mildred restored the contents of the bureau drawers, which the boys had unceremoniously tossed upon the carpet.
"Why, mother?" queried the self-constituted jailor.
"Because it is very dangerous. Your little sister might have been frightened into a fit or have died for want of air to breathe."