I advanced to the window. It was open, and it was just high enough to be above my head. The light in the room found its way outward through the interstices of closed wooden shutters. Still haunted by misgivings of trouble to come, I hesitated to announce my arrival precipitately by ringing the house-bell. How did I know what new calamity might not confront me when the door was opened? I waited under the window and listened.
Hardly a minute passed before I heard a woman’s voice in the room. There was no mistaking the charm of those tones. It was the voice of Mrs. Van Brandt.
“Come, darling,” she said. “It is very late—you ought to have been in bed two hours ago.”
The child’s voice answered, “I am not sleepy, mamma.”
“But, my dear, remember you have been ill. You may be ill again if you keep out of bed so late as this. Only lie down, and you will soon fall asleep when I put the candle out.”
“You must not put the candle out!” the child returned, with strong emphasis. “My new papa is coming. How is he to find his way to us, if you put out the light?”
The mother answered sharply, as if the child’s strange words had irritated her.
“You are talking nonsense,” she said; “and you must go to bed. Mr. Germaine knows nothing about us. Mr. Germaine is in England.”
I could restrain myself no longer. I called out under the window:
“Mr. Germaine is here!”