“She will occupy that room always. This is to be her home, and I want
you to see that she has every thing necessary.”
“Yes, sir.”
If the old servant was surprised at the announcement, she made no
remark. She took her up, arranged every thing for the night, and the
child never awakened.
It was not an unpleasant expression that spread itself upon the face of
the woman as she stooped over the bed, and laid with a careful hand
every fold about the sleeper. With noiseless feet she came again and
again to look once more at the unconscious form that seemed to possess
for her a singular attraction. Taking up the lamp, she turned to go into
her own (the adjoining) room, but, with an abrupt start, she checked
herself midway in the action, held the light suspended, and stood with
every muscle arrested, as if some unexpected sound had fallen suddenly
on her ears. Then she bent her head for a moment over the sleeper,
glanced quickly about the room, and hurriedly crossed to the hall.
She ran down the flight of stairs, looked first into the piano-room,
then into the parlor opposite. Both places were deserted, and the
instruments closed. The front door was bolted, and the master had
evidently retired. She went back to the guest-chamber. The child still
slept, and Margery held every nerve in suspense, but there was not the
least sound. She stepped to the window, pushed up the sash, then leaned
out and listened. The night was perfectly calm. What gentle breeze there
had been two hours before had died away and left a profound silence
unbroken even by the chirp of an insect. She closed the shutter, went
back to the bedside again for an instant; then, saying quietly to
herself, “It must have been mere fancy,” passed out to her own room, and
left the door partially open between the two apartments.