they contained.

Cecile began to count the articles of furniture in her little
bedroom. Alas! they were not many. By the time Jane appeared, a
complete list of them was nearly taken.

"Jane, go into that little inner attic, and poke out the rubbish,"
said Aunt Lydia, "poke out every stick and stone, and box. Don't
overlook a thing. I'll be with you in a minute."

"Nasty, dirty little hole," remarked Jane. "I'll soon find what it
contains; not sixpence worth, I'll warrant."

But here the rack of suspense on which poor Cecile was lying became
past endurance, the child's fortitude gave way.

Sitting up in bed, she cried aloud in a high-pitched, almost
strained voice, her eyes glowing, her cheeks like peonies:

"Oh! not the little cupboard in the wall. Oh! please--oh! please,
not the little cupboard in the wall."

"What cupboard? I know of no cupboard," exclaimed Aunt Lydia.

Jane held up her hands.

"Preserve us, ma'am, the poor lamb must be wandering, and look at
her eyes and hands."

"What is it, Cecile? Speak! what is it, you queer little creature?"