“That’s soon mended, captain.” And, after depositing the black cloak on the bed, he proceeded to fill his arms with my lord’s luxuries, and tumble them casually into chest and cupboard. “Here, leave the clothes alone.” “But—” “You had better, out of regard for those new breeches of yours. Richards must come up and restore order.” A spasm of vivacious devilry lit up the boy’s face. “So he had, captain. He is such a particular man! Shall I call down the stairs?” “Yes, call away.” Sparkin disappeared, and John Gore heard his voice piping through the house. “Richards—Tom Richards there! I say Richards—Mr. Thomas Richards, the captain’s orders are that you are to come aloft and clear up the clothes.” Sparkin’s voice reached to the nether regions, for slow and unwilling footsteps were heard below. The boy slipped down the stairs and met the man with a loud whisper. “The captain has made a most fearsome muddle, Tom. He’s turned out every chest and cupboard in the room. Just you come and look. It’s like a rag booth at a fair.” VII Barbara Purcell could not sleep that night, perhaps because she had chosen not to have her curtains drawn, so that the light of the full moon poured into the room. An increasing restlessness brought with it that feverish race of thoughts, where the memories of years flash out and intermingle like fantastic figures at a masked ball. She sat up at last in bed, shook her dark hair free from her shoulders, and stretched her arms out over her knees. The window stood a brilliant square in the blackness of the wall, each lozenge of glass like crystal set in ebony. Through the open casement she could see the silvery domes of the great trees in the park and the few faint clouds that streaked the summer sky. Her restlessness and the close night air made the moonlight seem like a shower of icy spray. And it was as though some feverish freak inspired her with the whim of bathing her hands and face in it, for she slipped out of bed, her white feet gliding over the polished woodwork of the floor. A sound like the scuffling of rats behind the wainscoting startled her for a moment, so that she stood listening with her face turned toward the door. The deep silence of the house seemed to listen with her for the recurrence of the sound, but she heard nothing but the sigh of her own breath. Moving to the window, she leaned her hands upon the sill, letting the draught play upon her bosom and in her hair. She felt as though the night laid a cool hand upon her forehead, while the infinite calmness of everything entered into her soul.