“They are to nominate Wilbur for Senator,” said Margaret. “If they knew, if he knew, Wilbur would not run. He has always had ambition. I should kill it.”
“You will not kill it,” said Alice. “Here, give me that suit-case, I will set it inside the gate here. Now Annie and I will walk with you and you must steal in and not wake anybody and go to bed and to sleep.”
“To sleep,” repeated Margaret bitterly.
“Then not to sleep, but you must go.”
The three passed down the moon-silvered road. When they had reached Margaret's door, Alice suddenly put an arm around her and kissed her.
“Go in as softly as you can, and to bed,” she whispered.
“What made you do that, Alice?” asked Annie in a small voice when the door had closed behind Margaret.
“I think I am beginning to love her,” whispered Alice. “Now you know what we must do, Annie?”
“What?”
“We must both watch until dawn, until after that train to New York which stops here at three-thirty. You must stand here and I will go to the other door. Thank God, there are only two doors, and I don't think she will try the windows because she won't suspect our being here. But I don't trust her, poor thing. She is desperate. You stay here, Annie. Sit down close to the door and—you won't be afraid?”