"And as he Wove he heard Singing."
Jennings, entering the library at an early hour that morning, started when he saw his little mistress lying there, still in her gown of the night before, one arm hanging listlessly down, her face buried in the pillows. The light was still burning in the lamp on the table.
"Yer little leddyship," said Jennings, softly, bending over her. She stirred and raised her head.
"I wasn't asleep, Jennings," she answered, in a pathetic voice. She looked like a little, pale wraith, in her white, crushed, tulle gown, a fragment of a cloud blown by chance into the old, gloomy room.
"You left this on the doorstep, yer little leddyship." He held her long, white wrap over his arm.
"Did I? Oh, so I did!" She took it and wrapped it about her shoulders, shivering. "I've been here all night long, Jennings," piteously, "and I'm so cold!"
"Poor bairn!" exclaimed Jennings, indignantly. He hurried from the room, then returned in a moment, and busied himself making a fire, muttering to himself—"Poor bairn, it's a shame, a shame!" Indiana watched his operations with interest, as she crouched, shivering, on the lounge. "Now, yer little leddyship." He wheeled a large armchair before the fire, and she nestled into it, holding her hands to the flame.
"Pile on the logs, Jennings, pile on the logs. That's right—a big, big blaze. Oh, I shall never be warm again. Who's that?" starting up, as some one knocked at the door.
"No one will come in, yer little leddyship," said Jennings, soothingly. "I ordered some tea and toast for you."
"Tea and toast," repeated Indiana, blissfully. "Tea and toast."