CHAPTER XXIII A FRESH TURNING Miss Brodie had apologised for not having a spare bed. "If it had been the morn's nicht, noo," she explained. "I've got ma sister frae Lunnon stoppin' wi' me, she's in the only vacant room, but she'll be awa' again the morn." Of course, Evarne emphatically declared that she did not envy the sister the spare room one jot, and soon after this they composed themselves to rest. But Evarne wooed sleep in vain. In silence and darkness and strangeness; the excitement of the evening, with its sustaining power all past; the company finally disbanded and deserted; everything chaos for the present--and for the morrow----? She had now a shilling and a halfpenny left in the world. Supposing she pawned some of her garments, and thus got back to Glasgow, wherein had she at all bettered her position? What could she do for the next night, let alone the nights to come? How long would it be now before she was both hungry and penniless? Would she then have to go into the workhouse--or what? She shuddered in bed, and writhed her fingers as if suffering physical agony. The cruel horror of the immediate future seemed to crush her as she lay. For the sake of her bedfellow she forced herself to remain silent and motionless for what seemed an interminable period. But giving way to a sudden invincible panic induced by accumulated reflections on many possibilities, she started up violently, and cried in a voice that scarcely sounded her own-- "Oh Heaven! What am I to do?" Then, burying her face in her hands, she wept unrestrainedly. An arm crept round her waist, and she was gently drawn to the side of her companion. "Puir lassie," said the kindly voice. "You're o'er-rocht. Dinna greet, but lie quiet and see what daylight brings. You've a' had a verra tryin' time here, but you'll sune be hame aince mair wi' your frien's, and mayhap a kind fayther or mither to welcome ye." "Oh no, no!" sobbed the girl, "I've got no one--nothing--no parents, no home or friends or anything! Oh, what shall I do? what will become of me?" Miss Brodie leaned out of bed and lit a candle. "The dark is na cheerie," she declared. Evarne managed to choke down her grief, and lay back upon the pillow once more. "I'm so sorry to have awakened you. Please go to sleep again. I'm going to be quite still and quiet now." "Dinna think o' me," said the kind-hearted Scots-woman. "What o' yoursel', puir bairn? It's a terrible thing for a lassie to be a' her lain i' the world." Gradually Evarne was prevailed upon to confide the seriousness of her plight. Miss Brodie grew more and more pitying and sympathetic. "I'll consult wi' ma sister," she said, at length. "Jean has got verra sharp wits frae being in Lunnon. She will advise ye. Anyway, ma lamb, dinna think that I'll turn ye oot a' at aince, though ye had naething in the whole world but a tongue to say 'thank ye' wi'." Evarne kissed her again and again.