“I am—­not—­going home, but I’m afraid of bats.  O Chris! aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” said Christian, “but I’m going to have the pictures.”

Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over.  Having found the bottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts.

The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all things, hated darkness.  The blanket across the doorway of the loft had been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room.

“Nobody here, you see,” said Christian.

“No-o,” whispered Greta, running to the window, and clinging to the wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.

“But they have been here!” cried Christian angrily.  “They have broken this.”  She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been thrown down.

Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden frames, dragging them with all her strength.

“Help me!” she cried; “it will be dark directly.”

They collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them before the window, and peering at them in the failing light.

Greta said ruefully: 

“O Chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate is shut now!”

Christian took a pointed knife from the table.

“I shall cut them out of the frames,” she said.  “Listen!  What’s that?”

It was the sound of whistling, which stopped beneath the window.  The girls, clasping each other’s hands, dropped on their knees.

“Hallo!” cried a voice.

Greta crept to the window, and, placing her face level with the floor, peered over.

“It is only Dr. Edmund; he doesn’t know, then,” she whispered; “I shall call him; he is going away!” cried Christian catching her sister’s —­“Don’t!” cried Christian catching her sister’s dress.

“He would help us,” Greta said reproachfully, “and it would not be so dark if he were here.”

Christian’s cheeks were burning.

“I don’t choose,” she said, and began handling the pictures, feeling their edges with her knife.

“Chris!  Suppose anybody came?”

“The door is screwed,” Christian answered absently.

“O Chris!  We screwed it unscrewed; anybody who wishes shall come!”

Christian, leaning her chin in her hands, gazed at her thoughtfully.

“It will take a long time to cut these pictures out carefully; or, perhaps I can get them out without cutting.  You must screw me up and go home.  In the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrew me again, and help carry the pictures.”

Greta did not answer at once.  At last she shook her head violently.

“I am afraid,” she gasped.

“We can’t both stay here all night,” said Christian; “if any one comes to our room there will be nobody to answer.  We can’t lift these pictures over the gate.  One of us must go back; you can climb over the gate—­there is nothing to be afraid of”