As she passed through the hall, she stopped for a moment at the head of
the stairs. The painted lady smiled at her, the painted lady who was
loved by the old man in the shadowed room.
No, Hilda was not a thief. Yet as she stood there, in the cold dawn of
that Thanksgiving morning, she had it in her mind to steal from the
painted lady things more precious than a pearl collar or an ermine
cloak or the diamonds in a crown!
CHAPTER XII
WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG
Jean was having her breakfast in bed. Emily had slipped downstairs to
drink an early cup of coffee with the Doctor and to warn him, "Don't
tell her to-day."
"Why not?"
"It will spoil her feast. Derry Drake is coming to dinner."
"The robber--"
"Do you really feel that way about it?"
"I don't know how I feel."
He rose and went to the window. "It's a rotten morning."
"It is Thanksgiving."
"I haven't much to be thankful for," moodily. "I am, you tell me,
about to lose my daughter. I am, also, it would seem, to part company
with my best nurse."
"Hilda?"
"Yes. I wanted her to take charge of things for me in France.
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