get it out now, and lay it over a chair. You can have a look
at it to-morrow--there will be plenty of time before you need begin to
dress," said Irma, who held the theory that it was never any use doing
to-day what could conveniently be put off until to-morrow.

"Mayn't I have a look at it now, mother?" asked Elsa, as she struggled
with the heavy sheepskin mantle and drew it out of the surrounding
rubbish; "the light will hold out for another half-hour at least, and
to-morrow morning I shall have such a lot to do."

"You may do what you like while the light lasts, my girl, but I won't
have you waste the candle over this stupid business. Candle is very
dear, and your father will never wear his bunda again after to-morrow."

"I won't waste the candle, mother. But Pater Bonifacius is coming in to
see me after vespers."

"What does he want to come at an hour when all sensible folk are in
bed?" queried Irma petulantly.

"He couldn't come earlier, mother dear; you know how busy he is always
on Sundays . . . benediction, then christenings, then vespers. . . . He
said he would be here about eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock!" exclaimed the woman, "who ever heard of such a
ridiculous hour? And candles are so dear--there's only a few centimetres
of it in the house."

"I'll only light the candle, mother, when the Pater comes," said Elsa,
with imperturbable cheerfulness; "I'll just sit by the open door now and
put a stitch or two in father's bunda while the light lasts: and when I
can't see any longer I'll just sit quietly in the dark, till the Pater
comes. I shall be quite happy," she added, with a quaint little sigh, "I
have such a lot to think about."

"So have I," retorted Irma, "and I shall go and do my thinking in bed. I
shall have to be up by six o'clock in the morning, I expect, and anyhow
I hate sitting up in the dark."

She turned to go into the inner room, but Elsa--moved by a sudden
impulse--ran after her and put her arms round her mother's neck.

"Won't you kiss me, mother?" she said wistfully. "You won't do it many
more times in my old home."

"A home you have often been ashamed of, my child," the mother said
sullenly.

But she kissed the girl--if not with tenderness, at any rate with a
curious feeling of pity which she herself could not have defined.

"Good-night, my girl," she said, with more gentleness than was her wont.
"Sleep well for the last time in your old bed. I doubt if to-morrow
you'll get in