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
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?"
said Aunt Lydia, in both perplexity and alarm, for the child was
sobbing hard, dry, tearless sobs.
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