'Poor, dear child!' said Miss Clotilda, as she reached Kathleen's door; 'I hope she isn't feeling dull, all alone.'
The door was locked.
'Kathie,' she called, 'it is I—aunty.'
A scattering inside, and then Kathleen's voice, sounding rather odd, replied, 'In a moment, aunty. Oh dear, oh dear! I wish I'—
'What is the matter, Kathie? Open at once, my dear; you alarm me!' Miss Clotilda exclaimed.
Thus adjured, Kathleen had no choice. She drew the bolt; Miss Clotilda entered.
WHAT WAS THE MATTER?
What was the matter? For an instant or two she was too bewildered to tell. The room seemed filled with fluff; a sort of dust was in the air; Kathie's own dress and hair looked as if they had been snowed upon; every piece of furniture in the room was covered with what on closer inspection proved to be feathers! And Kathleen herself, the image of despair, stood in helpless distress.