"Charlotte Ruston," she whispered fiercely, "you have to be strong--and
strong--and stronger yet! You have to be! _You have to be!_"
Then she rose quickly to her feet, with a motion not unlike that with
which John Leaver had sprung to his an hour before. It was a movement
which meant that emotion must yield to action. She went swiftly back to
the house, in at the door, up the straight, high stairs to her room.
As she lighted her candle a voice spoke from Madam Chase's room, its door
open into her own.
"Charlotte?"
"Yes, Granny?"
The girl went in, taking the candle, which she set upon the
dressing-table. She bent over the bed, putting her lips close to
the old lady's ear.
"Can't you sleep, dear?" she asked.
"Not until you are in, child. Why are you so late?"
"It's not late, Granny. You know I went to Dr. Burns's to dinner."
"It's very late," repeated the delicate old voice, slightly querulous,
because of its owner's failure to hear the explanation. "Much too late
for a girl like you. You should have had your beauty sleep long ago."
Charlotte smiled, feeling as if her twenty-six years had added another
ten to themselves since morning. She patted the soft cheek on the pillow,
and tenderly adjusted the gossamer nightcap which, after the fashion of
its wearer's youth, kept the white locks snugly in order during the
sleeping hours.
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