“Why doesn’t she come back?” she whispered, a second after, when, as if in answer, the portiere was pushed aside, and Rose, a very frightened little Rose, hurried to Polly, her eyes startled, and her cheeks pale.

“He isn’t there!  Aunt Lois isn’t there!  We’re alone in this studio, and I’d rather be alone anywhere than here!” she cried, and they shuddered when the vacant rooms echoed her voice.

“But we don’t have to stay here!” cried Polly, “come!  It’s getting late, and we must hurry, or we’ll be afraid to go down the streets alone.”

“We can’t go!” cried Rose, “that’s just the horrid part of it!”

“Why can’t we?”

As she asked the question Polly sprang to her feet, and clasping Rose’s hand, drew her toward the door.

“It’s no use, Polly,” said Rose, “We can’t go home, because I don’t know the way!”

Polly stared at her for a second in surprise.

“Why you’ve been here before with your Aunt Lois,” she said.

“I know I have,” Rose replied, “but I haven’t noticed just how we came.  It’s a long walk, and don’t you remember how many different streets we turned into, before we got here?  I tell you truly, Polly, I don’t know the first thing about going home!”

“Then we must wait here ’til they come for us,” said Polly, “Oh hark!  What was that?”

Together they sank upon the little divan, and now they spoke only in whispers.

“I don’t know what the noise was, but it was in that other room.  When I had looked at the clock, and I turned to come back, I had to pass the big suit of armor.  Polly, I knew there wasn’t anyone in it, but all the same I thought its eyeholes looked at me!”

“Oh—­o—­o!  Didn’t that sound as if his iron glove rattled against his shield?” was Polly’s startled whisper.

“It’s that, or—­he’s—­walking!” gasped Rose.

The two terrified children clung to each other.  They stared toward the large doorway, and their breath came faster.

Did the portiere sway?

No, it hung straight from its pole, but beyond, in that other room; was anyone moving about in there?

They hardly dared breathe.

At last Rose whispered, turning that her words might reach Polly’s ear.

“It’s still in there now,” she said, “and don’t you think—­”

She did not finish the question, for, at that moment, something creaked, and slipped to the floor, rolling evidently until it must have met another object that stopped it.

“There wasn’t a single sound here when it was bright daylight, and Mr. Kirtland was busy painting.  Why do the things in his studio act so when he’s away?” said Polly.

“It’s as if they knew we were here, and just wanted to scare us,” whispered Rose.

Frightened, hungry, weary, and nervously staring into that shadowy doorway, they waited—­waited hoping that someone might come before anything happened to make their terror greater.