I did not see Lady Pollexfen that day. She was reported to be unwell, and kept her own rooms.
About noon a message came from Sister Agnes that she would like to see me in her room. When I entered she was standing by a square oak table, resting one hand on it while the other was pressed to her heart. Her face was very pale, but her dark eyes beamed on me with a veiled tenderness that I could not misinterpret.
"Good morrow, Miss Holme," she said, offering a white slender hand for my acceptance. "I am afraid that you will find Dupley Walls even duller than Park Hill Seminary."
Her tone was cold and constrained. I looked up earnestly into her face. Her lips began to quiver painfully. Suddenly she stooped and kissed me. "Child! child! you must not look at me in that way," she cried.
Instinct whispered something in my ear. "You are the lady who came and kissed me when I was asleep!" I exclaimed.
Her brow contracted for a moment as if she were in pain. A hectic spot came out suddenly on either cheek, and vanished almost as swiftly. "Yes, it was I who came to your room last night," she said. "You are not vexed with me for doing so?"
"On the contrary, I love you for it."
Her smile, the sweetest I ever saw, beamed out at this. Gently she stroked my hair. "You looked so forlorn and weary last night," she said, "that after I got to bed I could not help thinking about you. I was afraid you would not be able to sleep in a strange place, so I could not rest till I had visited you: but I never intended to awake you."
"I do not mind how often I am awakened the same way," I said. "No one has ever seemed to love me but you, and I cannot help loving you back."
"Ma pauvre petite!" was all she said. We had sat down by this time close to the window, and Sister Agnes was holding one of my hands in hers and caressing it gently as she gazed dreamily across the park. My eyes, childlike, wandered from her to the room and then back again. The picture still lives in my memory as fresh as though it had been limned but yesterday.