The vague mystery and excitement of the
howl kept all the house gently agog for this Tuesday and Wednesday
intervening. Sin Saxon gave out odd hints here and there in confidence.
It was to be a "spread;" and the "grub" (Sin was a boarding-school girl,
you know, and had brothers in college) was all to be stolen. There was
an uncommon clearance of cakes and doughnuts, and pie and cheese, from
each meal, at this time. Cup-custards, even, disappeared,--cups and all.
A cold supper, laid at nine on Wednesday evening, for some expected
travelers, turned out a more meagre provision on the arrival of the
guests than the good host of the Giant's Cairn had ever been known to
make. At bedtime Sin Saxon presented herself in Miss Craydocke's room.
"There's something heavy on my conscience," she said, with a disquiet
air. "I'm really worried; and it's too late to help it now."
Miss Craydocke looked at her with a kind anxiety.
"It's never too late to _try_ to help a mistake. And _you_, Miss
Saxon,--you can always do what you choose."
She was afraid for her,--the good lady,--that her heedlessness might
compromise herself and others in some untoward scrape.
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