"No," said Rose, earnestly. "I was quite awake. Papa and mamma were gone
out to dine and sleep, and Maria would put me to bed half an hour too
soon. She read me to sleep, but by-and-by I woke up, as I always did at
mamma's bed time, and the candle was gone, and there were those dreadful
letters in light over the door."
She spoke with such conviction that he became persuaded that all was not
delusion, and asked what she did.
"I jumped up, and screamed, and opened the door; but there they were
growling in papa's dressing-room."
"They, the lions? Oh, Rose, you must know that was impossible."
"No, I did not see any lions, but I heard the growl, and Mr. Maddox
coughed, and said, 'Here they come,' and growled again."
"And you--?"
"I tumbled into bed again, and rolled up my head in the clothes, and
prayed that it might be day, and it was at last!"
"Poor child! Indeed, Rose, I do not wonder at your terror, I never heard
of a more barbarous trick."
"Was it a trick?" said Rose, raising a wonderfully relieved and hopeful
face.
"Did you never hear of writing in phosphorus, a substance that shines at
night as the sea sometimes does?"
"Aunt Ailie has a book with a story about writing in fiery letters, but
it frightened me so much that I never read to the end."
"Bring it to me, and we will read it together, and then you will see
that such a cruel use can be made of phosphorus."
"It was unkind of them," said Rose, sadly, "I wonder if they did it for
fun?"
"Where did you sleep?"
"I had a little room that opened into mamma's."
"And where was all this growling?"
"In papa's room. The door was just opposite to mine, and was open. All
the light was there, you know. Mamma's room was dark, but there was a
candle in the dressing-room."
"Did you see anything?"
"Only the light. It was such a moment. I don't think I saw Mr. Maddox,
but I am quite certain I heard him, for he had an odd little cough."
"Then, Rose, I have little doubt that all this cruelty to you, poor
inoffensive little being, was to hide some plots against your father."
She caught his meaning with the quickness of a mind precocious on some
points though childish on others. "Then if I had been brave and told the
truth, he might never have hurt papa."
"Mind, I do not know, and I never thought of blaming you, the chief
sufferer! No, don't begin to cry again."
"Ah! but I did tell a lie. And I never can confess it to mamma," she
said, recurring to the sad lament so long suppressed.