"Oh, impossible!" thought Sibyl. "Who is there in the world to whom she is of the slightest importance, living or dead, except indeed, to me? Willard has gone; she is, in all probability, safely asleep in yonder cottage; and I am only torturing myself by useless fears. I will return to the lodge, and leave to-morrow to unravel this mystery."
So saying, to the great satisfaction of her attendant, who had all this time been cautiously walking behind her, looking fearfully at every tree and rock, and fancying an assassin in their very shadows, Sibyl turned slowly toward the old hall. On their way they passed the cottage of Mrs. Tom. All was perfectly quiet there; and, mystified and uneasy still, Sibyl sought her room once more, to wonder and speculate upon the events of the night until morning should dawn.
The bustling little widow, Mrs. Tom—like all those who seem to have least occasion for it—was in the habit of getting up very early in the morning, to the serious annoyance of young Mr. Henley, who preferred letting the sun rise without impertinently staring at him while doing so. Christie, too, would just as soon not be awakened from some rosy dream at daylight, by the shrill voice of the old lady; but Aunt Tom's word was law, and when she called there was no such word as disobey. The little widow was quite aware of their disinclination for early rising, therefore great was her amazement, upon going to the outer room, to find Christie absent, the bed made, the door unlocked, giving evidence of her being up and out.
"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Tom, "what won't come to pass! Next thing, I s'pose, will be Carl offering to wash the dishes without bein' told. Shouldn't wonder if he was up and off this mornin', too. Fust time I ever knew Christie to git up 'thout bein' told. Here, you Carl! Carl!" shrieked Mrs. Tom, going to the foot of the ladder and looking up through the trap.
A sound she was well accustomed to, something between a snort and a groan, was Mr. Henley's answer.
"Hurry up there, ef ye don't want me to go up and help ye," called Mrs. Tom, "ef I do, ye'll wish ye had got up 'thout my help, that's all. I'll dress you, I reckon."
Now, as this was a formula Mrs. Tom had repeated every morning for some ten years, without ever being known to vary it in the least, Carl was too well accustomed to it to venture to disobey. Accordingly, he sprang up, and began dressing in all haste, considering he was half asleep during the performance. Mrs. Tom meanwhile set about kindling a fire, and preparing the breakfast, a meal which was usually over before the sun was up, and dressed for the day.
"Where's Christie?" was Carl's first question, upon reaching the kitchen, as he glanced in the direction of the settle, where, every morning, about this hour, he was accustomed to see her making her bed.
"Up and gathering sea-moss an hour ago, I'll be bound," replied Mrs. Tom, "same as you would do, ef you wasn't the most shiftless young vagabones on the face of the airth! I hope now this will be a warning to you for the future. Think o' all the sea-moss, and berries, and sich, you could have gathered every mornin' 'fore this time, ef you was worth your salt. But it al'ays was my luck, ever since I was born, to be plagued with a set o' the laziest, most good-for-nothing bein's ever I saw upon the face of the airth! Stand out o' my way, will you, ef you don't want to break my neck!"
Trot, the unfortunate cat, came in as usual, for the latter part of this outburst of eloquence, emphasized by a vigorous kick.