“People do not pass in the evening,” murmured Greta, “because the gate at our end is always shut.”

Christian rose.

“We will come this evening, just before the gate is shut.”

“But, Chris, how shall we get back again?”

“I don’t know; I mean to have the pictures.”

“It is not a high gate,” murmured Greta.

After dinner the girls went to their room, Greta bearing with her the big screw-driver of Fritz.  At dusk they slipped downstairs and out.

They arrived at the old house, and stood, listening, in the shadow of the doorway.  The only sounds were those of distant barking dogs, and of the bugles at the barracks.

“Quick!” whispered Christian; and Greta, with all the strength of her small hands, began to turn the screws.  It was some time before they yielded; the third was very obstinate, till Christian took the screw-driver and passionately gave the screw a starting twist.

“It is like a pig—­that one,” said Greta, rubbing her wrists mournfully.

The opened door revealed the gloom of the dank rooms and twisting staircase, then fell to behind them with a clatter.

Greta gave a little scream, and caught her sister’s dress.

“It is dark,” she gasped; “O Chris! it is dark!”

Christian groped for the bottom stair, and Greta felt her arm shaking.

“Suppose there is a man to keep guard!  O Chris! suppose there are bats!”

“You are a baby!” Christian answered in a trembling voice.  “You had better go home!”

Greta choked a little in the dark.

“I am—­not—­going home, but I’m afraid of bats.  O Chris! aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” said Christian, “but I’m going to have the pictures.”

Her cheeks were burning; she was trembling all over.  Having found the bottom step she began to mount with Greta clinging to her skirts.

The haze above inspired a little courage in the child, who, of all things, hated darkness.  The blanket across the doorway of the loft had been taken down, there was nothing to veil the empty room.

“Nobody here, you see,” said Christian.

“No-o,” whispered Greta, running to the window, and clinging to the wall, like one of the bats she dreaded.

“But they have been here!” cried Christian angrily.  “They have broken this.”  She pointed to the fragments of a plaster cast that had been thrown down.

Out of the corner she began to pull the canvases set in rough, wooden frames, dragging them with all her strength.

“Help me!” she cried; “it will be dark directly.”

They collected a heap of sketches and three large pictures, piling them before the window, and peering at them in the failing light.

Greta said ruefully: 

“O Chris! they are heavy ones; we shall never carry them, and the gate is shut now!”

Christian took a pointed knife from the table.