“And you—?”

“I tumbled into bed again, and rolled up my head in the clothes, and prayed that it might be day, and it was at last!”

“Poor child!  Indeed, Rose, I do not wonder at your terror, I never heard of a more barbarous trick.”

“Was it a trick?” said Rose, raising a wonderfully relieved and hopeful face.

“Did you never hear of writing in phosphorus, a substance that shines at night as the sea sometimes does?”

“Aunt Ailie has a book with a story about writing in fiery letters, but it frightened me so much that I never read to the end.”

“Bring it to me, and we will read it together, and then you will see that such a cruel use can be made of phosphorus.”

“It was unkind of them,” said Rose, sadly, “I wonder if they did it for fun?”

“Where did you sleep?”

“I had a little room that opened into mamma’s.”

“And where was all this growling?”

“In papa’s room.  The door was just opposite to mine, and was open.  All the light was there, you know.  Mamma’s room was dark, but there was a candle in the dressing-room.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Only the light.  It was such a moment.  I don’t think I saw Mr. Maddox, but I am quite certain I heard him, for he had an odd little cough.”

“Then, Rose, I have little doubt that all this cruelty to you, poor inoffensive little being, was to hide some plots against your father.”

She caught his meaning with the quickness of a mind precocious on some points though childish on others.  “Then if I had been brave and told the truth, he might never have hurt papa.”

“Mind, I do not know, and I never thought of blaming you, the chief sufferer!  No, don’t begin to cry again.”

“Ah! but I did tell a lie.  And I never can confess it to mamma,” she said, recurring to the sad lament so long suppressed.

She found a kind comforter, who led her to the higher sources of consolation, feeling all the time the deep self-accusation with which the sight of sweet childish penitence must always inspire a grown person.

“And now you will not fear to tell your aunt,” he added, “only it should be when you can mention it without such sad crying.”

“Telling you is almost as good as telling her,” said Rose, “and I feel safe with you,” she added, caressingly drawing his arm round her.  “Please tell Aunt Ermine, for my crying does give her such a headache.”

“I will, then, and I think when we all know it, the terrors will leave you.”

“Not when I see Mr. Maddox.  Oh, please now you know why, don’t make me walk without you.  I do know now that he could not do anything to me, but I can’t help feeling the fright.  And, oh! if he was to speak to me!”

“You have not seen him here before?”

“Yes I have, at least I think so.  Once when Aunt Ermine sent me to the post-office, and another time on the esplanade.  That is why I can’t bear going out without you or Aunt Ailie.  Indeed, it is not disliking Tibbie.”