“Why didn’t you?”

“I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed.”

“Wanted to go to bed?  Why, it’s only a little after nine o’clock!”

“Well, I can’t help it, I’m tired.”  Maria spoke with a weariness which was unmistakable.  She looked away from her aunt with a sort of blank despair.

Aunt Maria continued to regard her.  “You do act the queerest of any girl I ever saw,” said she.  “There was a nice fire in the parlor, and I thought you could offer him some refreshments.  There is some of that nice cake, and some oranges, and I would have made some cocoa.”

“I didn’t feel as if I could sit up,” Maria said again, in her weary, hopeless voice.  She went out into the kitchen, got a little lamp, and returned.  “Good-night,” she said to her aunt.

“Good-night,” replied Aunt Maria.  “You are a queer girl.  I don’t see what you think.”

Maria went up-stairs, undressed, and went to bed.  After she was in bed she could see the reflection of her aunt’s sitting-room lamp on the ground outside, in a slanting shaft of light.  Then it went out, and Maria knew that her aunt was also in bed in her little room out of the sitting-room.  Maria could not go to sleep.  She heard the clock strike ten, then eleven.  Shortly after eleven she heard a queer sound, as of small stones or gravel thrown on her window.  Maria was a brave girl.  Her first sensation was one of anger.

“What is any one doing such a thing as that for?” she asked herself.  She rose, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went straight to the window next the Merrill house, whence the sound had come.  She opened it cautiously and peered out.  Down on the ground below stood a long, triangle-shaped figure, like a night-moth.

“Who is it?” Maria called, in a soft voice.  She was afraid, for some reason which she could not define, of awakening her aunt.  She was more afraid of that than anything else.

A little moan answered her; the figure moved as if in distress.

“Who is it?  What do you want?” Maria asked again.

A weak voice answered her then, “It’s I.”

“Who’s I?  Lily?”

“Yes.  Oh, do let me in, Maria.”  Lily’s voice ended in a little, hysterical sob.

“Hush,” said Maria, “or Aunt Maria will hear you.  Wait a minute.”  Maria unlocked her door with the greatest caution, opened it, and crept down-stairs.  Then she unlocked and opened the front door.  Luckily Aunt Maria’s room was some feet in the rear.  “Come quick,” Maria whispered, and Lily came running up to her.  Then Maria closed and locked the front door, while Lily stood trembling and waiting.  Then she led her up-stairs in the dark.  Lily’s slender fingers closed upon her with a grasp of ice.  When they were once in Maria’s room, with the door closed and locked, Maria took hold of Lily violently by the shoulders.  She felt at once rage and pity for her.

“What on earth is the matter, Lily Merrill, that you come over here this time of night?” she asked.  Then she added, in a tone of horror, “Lily Merrill, you haven’t a thing on but a skirt and your night-gown under your shawl.  Have you got anything on your feet?”