"There! You will take no more roll? You are better, now, but you
will not be sorry to go to your bed," said Mrs. Aylward, taking up
a candle, and guiding her along the passage up a long stair to a
pretty room wainscoted and curtained with fresh white dimity, and
the window showing the young moon pale in the light of the western
sky.
Bedrooms were little furnished, and this was more luxurious than the
dear old chamber at home, but the girl had never before slept alone,
and she felt unspeakably lonely in the dreariness, longing more than
ever for Betty's kiss--even for Betty's blame--or for a whine from
Harriet; and she positively hungered for a hug from Eugene, as she
gazed timidly at the corners beyond the influence of her candle; and
instead of unpacking the little riding mail she kissed it, and laid
her cheek on it as the only thing that came from home, and burst into
a flood of despairing tears.
In the midst, there fell on her ears a low strain of melancholy music
rising and falling like the wailing of mournful spirits. She sprang
to her feet and stood listening with dilated eyes; then, as a louder
note reached her, in terror uncontrollable, she caught up her candle,
rushed down the stairs like a wild bird, and stood panting before Mrs.
Aylward, who had a big Bible open on the table before her.
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