“Oh, no; it’ll be all right when it’s dry. Them colors won’t run. Don’t worrit over that, but shet your eyes and go to sleep,” bustling out again.
“Dear old soul!” sighed Cinthia, grateful for the kiss pressed on top of her curly head. She shut her eyes, but she was too nervous to sleep.
She lay listening to the storm that still raged outside, and wondering what her aunt would think of her protracted stay, if she would be angry, or just frightened. Then her thoughts flew to Arthur Varian, his tender smiles, his bonny blue eyes.
“I will never marry any man but a blue-eyed one,” she thought, thrillingly, and at last fell into a gentle doze induced by weariness, the warmth of the bed, and the dose she had swallowed.
The nap lasted an hour, and when she opened her eyes Mrs. Bowles was rocking placidly by the cozy fire in the twilight.
“Oh, I have been asleep! How long?” she cried, uneasily.
“Most an hour. Do you feel rested?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, and I’d like to get up and go home. Are my clothes dry?”
“Oh, no—not yet; and as for that gray woolen frock of yours, it has shrunk that much you can never hook it up again, I can tell you that! But no matter. You’ve had it two years a’ready. I know, and it was too skimp for a growing girl, anyway. But Mrs. Varian has sent you in a suit of her clothes to put on, and when you’re dressed you are to take tea with her and her son.”
“Oh, but, Mrs. Bowles, I ought to go home at once. Aunt Beck will be so uneasy over me.”