There was no use in standing idly thinking about it though, especially as nothing of interest was occurring in the street just then; so Annie turned away and began to wonder what she should do to amuse herself.  In the “best china closet” was a delicious cake.  She had discovered that the key of the inner cupboard, where it was locked up, was kept in the blue vase on the dining-room mantel.  She had been several times “just to take a peep at the cake,” she said to herself.  Mrs. Conwell had also looked at it occasionally, and it had no appearance of having been interfered with.  Yet, somehow, there was a big hole scooped in the middle of it from the under side.  The discovery must be made some day, and then matters would not be so pleasant for the meddler; but, in the meantime, this morning Annie concluded to try “just a crumb” of the cake, to make sure it was not getting stale.

Having satisfied herself upon that point, and being at a loss for occupation, she thought she would see what was going on out of doors now. (If some little girls kept account of the minutes they spend in looking out of the window, how astonished they would be at the result!) At present the first person Annie saw was Lucy Caryl, who from the opposite sidewalk was making frantic efforts to attract her attention.

“Come into my house and play with me,” Lucy spelled with her fingers in the deaf and dumb alphabet.

Annie raised the sash.  “I can’t, Lucy!” she called.  “Mother said I must stay in the house.”

“Oh, do come—­just for a little while!” teased naughty Lucy.  “Your mother will never know.  She has gone away down town:  I saw her take the car.  We’ll watch the corner; when we see her coming, you can run around by the yard and slip in at the gate before she reaches the front door.”

The inducement was strong.  Annie pretended to herself that she did not understand the uneasy feeling in her heart, which told her she was not doing right.  The servants were down in the kitchen, and would not miss her.  She ran for her cloak and hood—­little girls wore good, warm hoods in those days,—­and in a few moments was scurrying along the sidewalk with Lucy.

The Caryls lived in a spacious brown stone house, which exteriorly was precisely like the residence of the Conwells.  The interior, however, was very different.  Contrasted with the brightness of Annie’s home, it presented an appearance of cheerless and somewhat dingy grandeur.  The parlors, now seldom used, were furnished in snuff-colored damask, a trifle faded; the curtains, of the same heavy material, had a stuffy look, and made one long to throw open the window to get a breath of fresh air.  The walls were adorned with remarkable tapestries in great gilt frames, testimonials to the industry of Mrs. Caryl during her girlhood.  Here and there, too, hung elaborate souvenirs of departed members of the family, in the shape of memorial crosses and wreaths of waxed flowers, also massively framed.  They were very imposing; but Annie had a nervous horror of them, and invariably hurried past that parlor door.