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As she so sat and so thought, a clock tolled out ten strokes. Soon thereafter the different inmates of the house—being chiefly of middle age and quiet habits—were to be heard exchanging good-night salutations on the staircase and in the hall, several doors closed, and then Aimée heard her aunt’s footsteps approach her chamber. There was no light, and the girl hoped it would pass on—for she had the feeling of a conspirator, and dreaded to be addressed by one whom she felt as if she was betraying—but Mrs. Berrien paused, opened the door and looked in.

“Are you asleep, Aimée?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Aunt Alice,” replied Aimée’s voice from the window. “I am sitting here.”

“What! in the dark, and by an open window! Are you trying to take cold? What is the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” answered Aimée, conscious that guilt was in every cadence of her voice. “It is so warm that I did not think I could take cold, and I—I like to look at the stars.”

“Close the window at once and go to bed,” said Mrs. Berrien. “You need not wait for Fanny. She will probably not be up for some time. Why are you so foolish and so peculiar, my dear? It is better for you to stay down-stairs in the evening.”