"AMY!"
Mrs. Grove called from the door that opened towards the garden. But
no answer came. The sun had set half an hour before, and his
parting, rays, were faintly tinging with gold and purple few clouds
that lay just alone the edge of the western sky. In the east, the
full moon was rising in all her beauty, making pale the stars that
were sparking in the firmament.
"Where is Amy?" she asked. "Has any one seen her come in?"
"I saw her go up stairs with her knitting in her hand half an hour
ago," said Amy's brother, who was busily at work with his knife on a
block of pine wood, trying to make a boat.
Mrs. Grove went to the foot of the stairs, and called again. But
there was no reply.
"I wonder where the child can be," she said to herself, a slight
feeling of anxiety crossing her mind. So she went up stairs to looks
for her. The door of Amy's bedroom was shut, but on pushing it open
Mrs. Grove saw her little girl sitting at the open window, so lost
in the beauty of the moonlit sky and her own thoughts that she did
not hear the noise of her mother's entrance.
"Amy," said Mrs. Grove.