ed; "it will be dark directly."

They collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them
before the window, and peering at them in the failing light.

Greta said ruefully:

"O Chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate
is shut now!"

Christian took a pointed knife from the table.

"I shall cut them out of the frames," she said. "Listen! What's that?"

It was the sound of whistling, which stopped beneath the window. The
girls, clasping each other's hands, dropped on their knees.

"Hallo!" cried a voice.

Greta crept to the window, and, placing her face level with the floor,
peered over.

"It is only Dr. Edmund; he doesn't know, then," she whispered; "I
shall call him; he is going away!" cried Christian catching her
sister's--"Don't!" cried Christian catching her sister's dress.

"He would help us," Greta said reproachfully, "and it would not be so
dark if he were here."

Christian's cheeks were burning.

"I don't choose," she said, and began handling the pictures, feeling
their edges with her knife.

"Chris! Suppose anybody came?"

"The door is screwed," Christian answered absently.

"O Chris! We screwed it unscrewed; anybody who wishes shall come!"

Christian, leaning her chin in her hands, gazed at her thoughtfully.

"It will take a long time to cut these pictures out carefully; or,
perhaps I can get them out without cutting. You must screw me up and go
home. In the morning you must come early, when the gate is open, unscrew
me again, and help carry the pictures."

Greta did not answer at once. At last she shook her head violently.

"I am afraid," she gasped.

"We can't both stay here all night," said Christian; "if any one comes
to our room there will be nobody to answer. We can't lift these
pictures over the gate. One of us must go back; you can climb over the
gate--there is nothing to be afraid of."

Greta pressed her hands together.

"Do you want the pictures badly, Chris?"

Christian nodded.

"Very badly?"

"Yes--yes--yes!"

Greta remained sitting where she was, shivering violently, as a little
animal shivers when it scents danger. At last she rose.

"I am going," she said in a despairing voice. At the doorway she turned.

"If Miss Naylor shall ask me where you are, Chris, I shall be telling
her a story."

Christian started.

"I forgot that--O Greta, I am sorry! I will go instead."

Greta took another step--a quick one.

"I shall d