But now Marygold, with her long hair tumbling over her little nightgown, was standing beside Faith’s bed tugging at her sheets with all her might. “There, there it is again,” as a loud but dull thud came against the lower panels of the door.
Poor Faith, who had till this moment been sound asleep, started up in bewildered alarm.
“It is burglars,” repeated Marygold, “and I can’t find the matches.”
By this time, however, Faith had collected both the matches and her wits, and was lighting the candle.
“Who, who’s there?” she asked, in rather unsteady tones.
Then a very frightened little voice made itself heard.
“Oh, please Fay, I can’t find the handle, and I’m so frightened out here in this ghostly passage, and Andrew’s dying.”
In a twinkling, Faith was out of bed, and with her dressing-gown flying loosely behind her, was hurrying down the long passage and up the little flight of steep stairs, which separated the girls’ rooms from those that the boys occupied.
Poor, half-awake Hubert was meanwhile telling his sleepy story to Marygold.
“I b’lieve Andrew’s dying. Phil and Jack are awfully frightened ’cause he is making such a funny noise and doesn’t seem able to breaf a bit. I was to run as fast as I could for Fay, they said, but it was all dark, and I hit my head three times and knocked my elbow dreffully.”