inly
not to sleep. She heard the stairs creak, and wondered if anyone else
were awake in the house, and would notice the compromising sound.

"Oh, dear! What is to be done?" she thought anxiously. "It's fearfully
naughty of Honor, yet I sympathize with her wanting to help Dermot. I
believe I should have gone myself, if I'd had a brother of my own in
trouble. Major Fitzgerald must be a very stern man; they both seem too
frightened of him to tell anything, and their poor mother is so ill she
mustn't be disturbed. I'm sorry for Honor. I hope she won't be long
away; I shall be wretched till she comes back. Somebody might see her
from a window, even if no one hears her in the passage, and then--I
don't like to think of the consequences!"

Honor was indeed determined to do her utmost for Dermot. Of all her
five brothers, he was the dearest. Rather younger than herself, he had
been her inseparable companion in nursery days, when the pair had
shared everything, from sweets to scoldings, with strictest
impartiality. Honor had never forgotten the terrible parting when her
father had decreed that Dermot was old enough to go to school--how she
had cried herself sick, and how absolutely lonely and deserted the
Castle had seemed when she was obliged to wander about and amuse
herself alone. She had grown accustomed in time to solitary rambles,
but she had always looked forward to her brother's return with keenest
anticipation, and regretted bitterly that holidays were so short.

That Dermot was in trouble and wanted her was now the one thought
uppermost in her mind, and rules were entirely ignored in her desire to
see him and speak with him. Though she was determined to carry out her
project she knew, however, that it was a most unorthodox and
unwarrantable proceeding to leave St. Chad's at such an hour, and on
such an errand, and she had no desire to be caught and prevented from
going.

She stole along the landing, therefore, as softly as possible, pausing
every now and then to listen if all were quiet. The whole house seemed
to be sound asleep, and not a door opened as she passed. Once down the
stairs and in the hall she felt safer, and hurrying quickly into the
dressing-room, she easily unbolted a French window that led into the
garden.

Was that a step on the stairs? Honor was not sure. She dared not go
back to ascertain, but, rushing outside, fled as fast as she could
round the corner in the direction of the cricket pitch.