night-gown, he would have noticed her long upper lip, her
obstinate chin, her sallow complexion, her eyes placed too close
together--and would have turned his attention to her nearest
neighbors. On one side his languid interest would have been
instantly roused by Cecilia's glowing auburn hair, her
exquisitely pure skin, and her tender blue eyes. On the other, he
would have discovered a bright little creature, who would have
fascinated and perplexed him at one and the same time. If he had
been questioned about her by a stranger, he would have been at a
loss to say positively whether she was dark or light: he would
have remembered how her eyes had held him, but he would not have
known of what color they were. And yet, she would have remained a
vivid picture in his memory when other impressions, derived at
the same time, had vanished. "There was one little witch among
them, who was worth all the rest put together; and I can't tell
you why. They called her Emily. If I wasn't a married man--"
There he would have thought of his wife, and would have sighed
and said no more.

While the girls were still admiring Francine, the clock struck
the half-hour past eleven.

Cecilia stole on tiptoe to the door--looked out, and
listened--closed the door again--and addressed the meeting with
the irresistible charm of her sweet voice and her persuasive
smile.

"Are none of you hungry yet?" she inquired. "The teachers are
safe in their rooms; we have set ourselves right with Francine.
Why keep the supper waiting under Emily's bed?"