Janet had given a most violent start when she opened the door of her
mother's bedroom where the davenport stood; and Janet much resented
being startled; no doubt that was the reason she was so cross,
thought Barbara, but still it was very disagreeable.
That room was the child's also. She had been her mother's bed-fellow
ever since her father's death, and she felt her present solitude.
The nights were sultry, and her sleep had been broken of late.
That night she was in a slumber as cool as a widely-opened window
would make it, but not so sound that she was not haunted all the time
by dread for Armine.
Suddenly she was awakened to full consciousness by seeing a light in
the room. No, it was not the maid putting away her dresses. It was
Janet, bending over her mother's davenport.
Babie started up.
"Janet! Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing! Nonsense! go to sleep, child."
"What are you about?"
"Never mind. Only mother keeps her things in such a mess; I was
setting them to rights after disturbing them to find the book."
There was something in the tone like an apology.
Babie did not like it, but she well knew that she should be
contemptuously put down if she attempted an inquiry, far less a
remonstrance, with Janet. Only, with a puzzled sort of watch-dog
sense, she sat up in bed and stared.
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