She ran away before Maurice had even time to expostulate. She was conscious that a crisis had come, that a great dread was over her, that there might yet be time to take the purse from its hiding place. An inventory meant that every box was looked into, every cupboard opened. What chance then had her purse in its tin box in a forgotten cupboard? That cupboard would be opened at last, and her treasure stolen away. Aunt Lydia was even now in the attics, or was she? Was there any hope that Cecile might be in time to rescue the precious purse? She flew up the attic stairs, her heart beating, her head giddy. Oh! if she might be in time! Alas! she was not. Aunt Lydia was already in full possession of Cecile's and Maurice's attic. She was standing on tiptoe, and taking down some musty books from a shelf. "Go away, Cecile," she said to the little girl, "I'm very busy, and I can't have you here; run out at once." "Please, Aunt Lydia, I've such a bad headache," answered poor Cecile. This was true, for her agitation was so great she felt almost sick. "May I lie down on my bed?" she pleaded. "Oh, yes, child! if your head is bad. But you won't get much quiet here, for Jane and I have our work cut out for us, and there'll be plenty of noise." "I don't mind a noise, if I may lie down," answered Cecile thankfully. She crept into her bed, and lay as if she was asleep. In reality, with every nerve strung to the highest tension, sleep was as impossible for her as though such a boon had never been granted to the world. Whenever Aunt Lydia's back was turned, her eyes were opened wide. Whenever Aunt Lydia looked in her direction, the poor little creature had to feign the sleep which was so far away. As long as it was only Maurice's and Cecile's attic, there was some rest. There was just a shadowy hope that Aunt Lydia might go downstairs for something, that five minutes might be given her to snatch her treasure away. Lydia Purcell, however, a thoroughly clever woman, was going through her work with method and expedition. She had no idea of leaving the attics until she had taken a complete and exhaustive list of what they contained. Cecile began to count the articles of furniture in her little bedroom. Alas! they were not many. By the time Jane appeared, a complete list of them was nearly taken. "Jane, go into that little inner attic, and poke out the rubbish," said Aunt Lydia, "poke out every stick and stone, and box. Don't overlook a thing. I'll be with you in a minute." "Nasty, dirty little hole," remarked Jane. "I'll soon find what it contains; not sixpence worth, I'll warrant." But here the rack of suspense on which poor Cecile was lying became past endurance, the child's fortitude gave way. Sitting up in bed, she cried aloud in a high-pitched, almost strained voice, her eyes glowing, her cheeks like peonies: "Oh! not the little cupboard in the wall. Oh! please--oh! please, not the little cupboard in the wall."