“I’ll be sound asleep,” Nancy decided, when she was finally settled in bed after spending a fitful hour trying to read. “It’s the only way. I never could talk to Rosa to-night. To-morrow things will seem different.”

Assuming her most restful attitude—lying flat on her back with her face “boldly turned up to Heaven,” as Ted called Nancy’s way of wooing sleep, she tried to think calmly.

“But what did Orilla want to steal in for?” persisted that question. “And even if she didn’t want Margot to know that she came, why should she want to deceive Rosa?

“But somehow I don’t believe she’s as fierce as I thought she was at first,” continued Nancy’s reasoning. “She’s sort of a bluffer, for she looked frightened when I defied her.”

“Still, I believe it’s better not to have her for an enemy. She has sort of a catty look in her green eyes, and cats are terribly sneaky creatures.”

Thus her thoughts hovered, like a balancing scale, for her encounter with the strange girl had been too exciting to be very soon forgotten.

“And if Rosa finds out without fully understanding!”

That thought was the most difficult to argue against, for the whole party cape episode had now assumed the proportions of real trouble.

“And yet it has made Rosa think kindly of Betty! Surely that is the most important thing of all,” decided Nancy finally.

Trying to adjust all the other tangled ends into this silken tassel of beauty, she lay there, defying the ceiling to fall in her face, as the constant thought of little brother Ted had so often warned her it was sure to do, some night, if she didn’t seek discreet refuge in the kindly bed clothes.

Yes, it would be lovely for everyone, especially for dear Uncle Frederic, if Rosa would become reconciled to the stepmother. Uncle Frederic loved Betty and Betty had loved Rosa’s own mother; why, therefore, could not Rosa try to be grateful instead of rebellious?

Then it occurred to Nancy that Rosa was staying out rather late. Even being over to Durand’s did not seem to warrant this late home-coming.

Night has a queer influence upon thought, and even a girl like Nancy, always brave and courageous when on her feet, could feel rather timid about things lying there in the dark, and staring at the ceiling.

What if Orilla had lain in wait for Rosa and enticed her to go away or something? What if Orilla had demanded money from Rosa? Would Orilla steal? That house had been the girl’s home and it was not strange that she should sometimes want to visit it, came a more reasonable suggestion. And surely she would not steal, was the answer to that question.

But Nancy could not feign slumber, for her mind was too active to forget that the light patch above her was the ceiling, and not a bird’s downy wing, bringing sleep, as the poets warrant.

Where was her mother now? So far across the sea that even the time there was not the same as that which ticked away patiently on Nancy’s dresser. But her mother would surely enjoy the visit to those famous shrines of knowledge, for Nancy’s mother loved to learn.

That darling mother! So pretty, so sweet, so kind and always so helpful! A deep, audible sigh escaped the girl on the bed as she indulged in this deliberation. Her mother had always been so like a girl chum, so companionable and such a refuge in trouble.

“But I shouldn’t lean on her,” came the accusing thought. “If I cannot rely upon myself, then mother’s teaching would not have been well learned.”

Following that came the thoughts of industrious little Miss Manners—Manny to Nancy and Ted. Then all the girl friends, who this summer seemed so far away, paraded before Nancy’s fancy, as they had so often done in reality.

A slammed door rudely broke up the soliloquy.

“Rosa!” exclaimed Nancy gladly, although Rosa was not yet in sight. “I’m so glad she’s home safe!”

The relief was so great that Nancy promptly turned over and feigned sleep. She really couldn’t talk to Rosa to-night, and she was sure her cousin would be just bubbling over with the evening’s news.

A step in the hall, a halting at the door and then the whispered call:

“Nancy!”

“Yes,” replied Nancy promptly, recognizing something unusual in Rosa’s voice.

“Awake?”

“Yes.”

“Then turn on the light.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“But you act so—so—” Nancy switched on the bedside light. “I’m just sort—of—out of breath.”

“Been running?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

“Silly, I guess.”

“But what made you run, Rosa? You haven’t a puff in you.”

“I know. But my puffs give out easily.” Rosa had sunk into the nearest chair and was breathing uncomfortably.

“But why? Did something frighten you?” pressed Nancy.

“Why—I was at the very door, Dell and Gar came to the very threshold with me, and then—oh, dear, what makes me puff so?” Rosa was still very much “out of breath.”

“What was at the door?” questioned Nancy. She felt a little guilty in her relentlessness.

“Nothing. I was just opening it when I thought—I thought I heard a kitten. And I perfectly hate to leave a little baby kitten crying—all—night. Don’t you?” Rosa managed to ask.

“Oh, of course I do,” replied Nancy irritably. “But why should a crying kitten scare you?”

“It—didn’t.”

“What was it, then? For mercy sakes! You’ve got me all worked up,” declared Nancy, who by now was out of bed and standing in front of Rosa’s chair.

“That’s just how I am; all worked up, so please don’t make me any worse. In the language of the poets, I’m ‘all—in!’”

“Of course, if you don’t want to tell me,” and Nancy turned back toward her bed, sullenly.

“But I do want to tell you; I’m just dying to, if you’ll only give me a chance. Nancy, you know you are horribly impatient. We can’t all be firecrackers like you.” Rosa was recovering her breath, her spirits and her use of language.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. But when I thought I heard the kitten I crawled very carefully around to the side porch. You know how kittens can scat. And the porch was dark as pitch, so,” Rosa was drawing out the story with provoking detail, “so, I called kitty, kitty, kitty! And I waited and listened. No kitty meowed an answer, and I was just turning back to the door when—something crashed down on the porch! Didn’t you hear it?”

“No; what was it?”

“Betty’s prettiest fernery, the white enameled one decorated with butterflies and flowers. Dad bought it for her when she came up here—a—bride!” There was tragedy in Rosa’s tones.

“But you must have knocked it over,” argued Nancy, none too sure of her assertion.

“I didn’t! I couldn’t have! I was nowhere near it!”

“Then who—could—have?” faltered Nancy.

“Someone who—wanted to spite Betty,” Rosa almost whispered this, and still seemed rather shaken from her fright.

“I should suppose everyone in this house would understand his or her duty to Betty,” insisted Nancy. “I guess that tall little stand went over in the wind, Rosa. You know what gales can shoot up from the lake. Have a nice time at Durand’s?”

“Lov-ell-ly, but they mourned over you not coming. You have stolen Gar’s heart from me, I’m afraid,” teased Rosa. “He just kept saying nice things about you all the time. And we’re going to the hotel to-morrow night. You can’t imagine how excited I am—”

“Aren’t you awfully late? Does Margot know you are out so late?”

“No, indeed. I phoned her hours ago and fixed it all up—”

“Rosa, I don’t want to be preachy,” interrupted Nancy, recalling poor Margot’s serious appeal for her help, “but I can’t see what fun you get out of fooling Margot. She thinks such heaps about you—”

“I know. She’s a duck. But one has to have some fun, so I take—mine—this way,” and Rosa swung herself about saucily. “Not that I blame you, little Coz, for trying to reform me. It’s right good of you,” and she flicked a kiss on Nancy’s cheek as she prepared to take herself off. Nancy was eager to do something definite, and she knew that Rosa’s present mood was not too often displayed. Therefore she risked a straight appeal to the other’s honor.

“Don’t you think we ought to pledge ourselves to be truthful at least, while your father is away?”

“Truthful?”

“Yes. Not to deceive each other or Margot or anyone who has a right to our—our confidence,” finished Nancy, rather laboriously.

Rosa sighed. “That would be awfully hard to carry out,” she said. “For me, at least.”

“Why?” demanded Nancy.

“Oh, I just can’t tell you at this hour. Let’s go to bed and dream of—to-morrow night’s dance.”

“All right, Rosa,” assented Nancy, “but you have no idea how scary it is here when you are out too late. I can well imagine how Margot feels. It’s really very strange to me, for you are awfully young to be so—so—”

“Sporty!” lisped Rosa rather comically.

“No, not that,” Nancy scoffed. “We’re nothing but school girls, and I’m no good at pretending I’m grown up. But anyhow, Rosa, I hope you won’t worry me to death!”

In answer to that the cousins reverted to the true girlship they were discussing, for Rosa fell upon Nancy’s bed, and the way they talked, and the things they talked of, proved them girls, no more nor less.