"Creatures of the night are we,
Sisters of the glow-worm dim,
Comrades of the hooting owl,
Toilers when the sunset's rim
Overflows with shadows deep;
Harken to our even-song,
Night it is that makes us strong."
The chorus swelled, with Griffin's thrilling treble soaring high and clear:
"Glorious night that makes us strong,
Drowning day and ending strife;
Guide the skilful hand and eye,
Shape our efforts into life."
Patricia's heart beat hard with the beauty of the woven word and melody, and she gave a little gulp to keep back the tears that sprang so readily.
"I didn't dream those uproarious creatures could be so serious. I wonder where they got that song," she said to herself as she slipped unnoticed out into the twilight of the corridor.
She put the question to Griffin when she met her in the hall after the class had broken up in disorder to celebrate the initiation by a general gambol through the deserted halls and corridors. Patricia and Griffin were seating themselves on a drawing-board at the top of the short flight of stone steps that connected the back corridor with the exhibition rooms above.
"That? Oh, Carol Lawton wrote that for us before she left. She was a corker, I can tell you." A shade flitted over Griffin's face as she settled herself more firmly on the board. "She died last fall, and we've sung that song ever since. Ready now! Let her go!"
Away they sped down the stony stairs with a great clatter of board and flutter of skirts, winding up at the bottom with a final heavy thump.
"Phew! That's great!" cried Patricia, springing lightly to her feet. "It's more like flying than anything else."
"Yes, it's going some," returned Griffin nonchalantly, as she started up the stair again, dragging the board after her. "The March Hare originated it back in the dark ages, and we've been doing it off and on—when the authorities don't get on to us."