Already well into the apartment, she discovers her mistake, and, simultaneously, lets fall her lamp, surprised by the unlooked-for tableau confronting her. Here, in the dimly-lighted room, close to the murdered warden, whose face she has uncovered,--like some exquisite statue of Pity, mute, motionless, and scarce less pallid than the marble before her,--stands the night-robed figure of May-blossom. No childish recoil from that awful presence disturbs her sweet, earnest face. A solemn awe is in the wistful gray eyes, a mute interrogation of that confronting mystery, blent with the tender pathos of commisserating love. Startled by the clatter of the falling lamp, the child turns, and timidly awaits the approach of the unknown intruder. Dear, kind Miss Paulina! Surprise and wonder at once give way to the one absorbing desire to clasp in her warm, motherly arms this lovely, lonely child.
"Poor little darling," she murmurs, caressingly, approaching and kissing the tear-wet cheek. "Why are you here so late, and all alone?"
"I thought," apologizes the child, "I thought it might not be so _very_ wrong. The nights are so long, and when I tried to sleep my eyes wouldn't shut; for I kept thinking of him (indicating reverently the corpse), and of the other, too. Peter says _he's_ crazy, and awful wicked, and down there in the dungeon with the rats, an' all in irons! And when I thought of it, I got wider and wider awake, and then I came to father. When he was alive (apologetically), of course, he didn't care to have me around, and so I stayed mostly with Uncle Tim and Peter, and the others; but I thought he might be glad, up in heaven, if he saw me staying with him _now_ when he is all alone."
"It was not at all wrong, dear child," says Miss Paulina; "but come away with _me_ now. I am your father's cousin, my child, your Aunt Paulina. You shall try _my_ bed to-night, and see if you cannot sleep _there_."
Permitting the child a last good-night kiss, Miss Paulina re-covers the dead face of Warden Flint, upon which the sharp agony of that cruel exit from life yet lingers, and the two pass reverently from the chamber.
Never, in all May-blossom's unmothered life, has there been a night like this. The warm cuddling in tender arms, two fairy tales, the tucking up in bed, and, last of all, the singing of a Scotch ballad, sweet as April rain, upon whose soothing rhythm the weary little soul floats awhile in semi-consciousness, and, at last, falls deliciously into the soft arms of sleep.