It took two days to get ready.  After the German on Thursday night, the howl was announced to come off in Number Thirteen, West Wing.  This, of course, was the boudoir; but nobody but the initiated knew that.  It was supposed to be Maud Walcott’s room.  The assistant pupil made faint remonstrances against she knew not what, and was politely told so; moreover, she was pressingly invited to render herself with the other guests at the little piazza door, precisely at eleven.  The matronly ladies, always amused, sometimes a little annoyed and scandalized, at Sin Saxon’s escapades, asked her, one and another, at different times, what it was all to be, and if she really thought she had better, and among themselves expressed tolerably grave doubts about proprieties, and wished Madam Routh would return.  The vague mystery and excitement of the howl kept all the house gently agog for this Tuesday and Wednesday intervening.  Sin Saxon gave out odd hints here and there in confidence.

It was to be a “spread;” and the “grub” (Sin was a boarding-school girl, you know, and had brothers in college) was all to be stolen.  There was an uncommon clearance of cakes and doughnuts, and pie and cheese, from each meal, at this time.  Cup-custards, even, disappeared,—­cups and all.  A cold supper, laid at nine on Wednesday evening, for some expected travelers, turned out a more meagre provision on the arrival of the guests than the good host of the Giant’s Cairn had ever been known to make.  At bedtime Sin Saxon presented herself in Miss Craydocke’s room.

“There’s something heavy on my conscience,” she said, with a disquiet air.  “I’m really worried; and it’s too late to help it now.”

Miss Craydocke looked at her with a kind anxiety.

“It’s never too late to try to help a mistake.  And you, Miss Saxon,—­you can always do what you choose.”

She was afraid for her,—­the good lady,—­that her heedlessness might compromise herself and others in some untoward scrape.  She didn’t like these rumors of the howl,—­the last thing she thought of being her own rest and comfort, which were to be purposely invaded.

“I’ve let the chance go by,” said Sin Saxon desperately.  “It’s of no use now.”  And she rocked herself back and forth in the Shaker chair of which she had taken possession.

“My dear,” said Miss Craydocke, “if you would only explain to me,—­perhaps”—­

“You might!” cried Sin, jumping up, and making a rush at the good woman, seizing her by both hands.  “They’d never suspect you.  It’s that cold roast chicken in the pantry.  I can’t get over it, that I didn’t take that!”

Sin was incorrigible.  Miss Craydocke shook her head, taking care to turn it aside at the same moment; for she felt her lips twitch and her eyes twinkle, in spite of herself.

“I won’t take this till the time comes,” said Sin, laying her hand on the back of the Shaker chair.  “But it’s confiscated for to-morrow night, and I shall come for it.  And, Miss Craydocke, if you do manage about the chicken,—­I hate to trouble you to go downstairs, but I dare say you want matches, or a drink of water, or something, and another time I’ll wait upon you with pleasure,—­here’s the door, made for the emergency, and I on the other side of it dissolved in tears of gratitude!”