Cecile's and Maurice's attic. She was standing on tiptoe, and taking
down some musty books from a shelf.

"Go away, Cecile," she said to the little girl, "I'm very busy, and
I can't have you here; run out at once."

"Please, Aunt Lydia, I've such a bad headache," answered poor
Cecile. This was true, for her agitation was so great she felt almost
sick. "May I lie down on my bed?" she pleaded.

"Oh, yes, child! if your head is bad. But you won't get much quiet
here, for Jane and I have our work cut out for us, and there'll be
plenty of noise."

"I don't mind a noise, if I may lie down," answered Cecile thankfully.

She crept into her bed, and lay as if she was asleep. In reality,
with every nerve strung to the highest tension, sleep was as
impossible for her as though such a boon had never been granted to
the world. Whenever Aunt Lydia's back was turned, her eyes were
opened wide. Whenever Aunt Lydia looked in her direction, the poor
little creature had to feign the sleep which was so far away. As long
as it was only Maurice's and Cecile's attic, there was some rest.
There was just a shadowy hope that Aunt Lydia might go downstairs for
something, that five minutes might be given her to snatch her
treasure away.

Lydia Purcell, however, a thoroughly clever woman, was going through
her work with method and expedition. She had no idea of leaving the
attics until she had taken a complete and exhaustive list of what