"I feel quite sure, Caroline," Aunt Victoria said solemnly, "that if you take a candle, and go upstairs this minute, you will find that child wide awake."
Mrs. Caldwell felt that she was being found fault with, and was indignant. She went upstairs at once, with her head held high, expecting to find Beth in a healthy sleep. The relief, however, of finding that the child was well, would not have been so great at the moment as the satisfaction of proving Aunt Victoria in the wrong.
But Beth was wide awake, petitioning God in an agony to spare her friends. When Mrs. Caldwell entered she started up.
"O mamma!" she exclaimed, "I'm so glad you've come; I've been so frightened about you."
"What is the matter with you, Beth?" Mrs. Caldwell asked, not over-gently. "What are you frightened about?"
"Nothing," Beth faltered, shrinking back into herself.
"Oh, that's nonsense," her mother answered. "It's silly to be frightened at nothing, and cowardly to be frightened at all. Lie down and go to sleep, like a good child. Come, turn your face to the wall, and I'll tuck you in."
Beth obeyed, and her mother left her to her fears, and returned to Aunt Victoria in the drawing-room.
"Well?" Aunt Victoria asked anxiously.
"She was awake," Mrs. Caldwell acknowledged. "She said she was frightened, but didn't know what of. I expect she'd been dreaming. And I'm sure there is nothing the matter with her. She's been subject to queer fits of alarm at night ever since she was a baby. It's the dark, I think. It makes her nervous. At one time the doctor made us have a night-light for her, which was great nonsense, I always said; but her father insisted. When it suits her to play in the dark, she's never afraid."