Chapter 29

XXIX

THE inhabitants of the little house in Passy were of necessity
early risers; but when Susy jumped out of bed the next morning
no one else was astir, and it lacked nearly an hour of the call
of the bonne's alarm-clock.

For a moment Susy leaned out of her dark room into the darker
night. A cold drizzle fell on her face, and she shivered and
drew back. Then, lighting a candle, and shading it, as her
habit was, from the sleeping child, she slipped on her dressing-
gown and opened the door. On the threshold she paused to look
at her watch. Only half-past five! She thought with
compunction of the unkindness of breaking in on Junie Fulmer's
slumbers; but such scruples did not weigh an ounce in the
balance of her purpose. Poor Junie would have to oversleep
herself on Sunday, that was all.

Susy stole into the passage, opened a door, and cast her light
on the girl's face.

"Junie! Dearest Junie, you must wake up!"

Junie lay in the abandonment of youthful sleep; but at the sound
of her name she sat up with the promptness of a grown person on
whom domestic burdens have long weighed.

"Which one of them is it?" she asked, one foot already out of
bed.

"Oh, Junie dear, no ... it's nothing wrong with the children ...
or with anybody," Susy stammered, on her knees by the bed.

In the candlelight, she saw Junie's anxious brow darken
reproachfully.

"Oh, Susy, then why--? I was just dreaming we were all driving
about Rome in a great big motor-car with father and mother!"

"I'm so sorry, dear. What a lovely dream! I'm a brute to have
interrupted it--"

She felt the little girl's awakening scrutiny. "If there's
nothing wrong with anybody, why are you crying, Susy? Is it you
there's something wrong with? What has happened?"

"Am I crying?" Susy rose from her knees and sat down on the
counterpane. "Yes, it is me. And I had to disturb you."

"Oh, Susy, darling, what is it?" Junie's arms were about her in
a flash, and Susy grasped them in burning fingers.

"Junie, listen! I've got to go away at once-- to leave you all
for the whole day. I may not be back till late this evening;
late to-night; I can't tell. I promised your mother I'd never
leave you; but I've got to--I've got to."

Junie considered her agitated face with fully awakened eyes.
"Oh, I won't tell, you know, you old brick, " she said with
simplicity.

Susy hugged her. "Junie, Junie, you darling! But that wasn't
what I meant. Of course you may tell--you must tell. I shall
write to your mother myself. But what worries me is the idea of
having to go away-- away from Paris--for the whole day, with
Geordie still coughing a little, and no one but that