Thus was the fatted calf killed for Reba, though she herself was hardly aware of it. She sat with her hands still in her lap and her gaze still fastened upon the door-knob. Some one had to touch her to call her back to the present place and moment. "You wanted to go to bed, didn't you?" Syringa asked her.
"Oh, yes; so I did," she replied.
Sweet as the return of the prodigal was to Augusta Morgan, it was in no spirit of triumph or proud victory that the old despot crossed the hall to Reba's room that night, after the crack at the bottom of the girl's door had been dark for over an hour.
"I just thought I'd look in," she explained, "and see if you were asleep yet."
There was a light burning in the hall, and Reba from her bed could see Aunt Augusta standing tall and specter-like in the familiar gray wrapper. "No, I'm not asleep.
Augusta came in.
"I was afraid you wasn't." She had a glass in her hand. "You drink this; it's bromide. Your mother has it to quiet her once in a while."
Reba drank docilely, and lay back again on her pillow.
An hour later, "You asleep yet?" inquired the same gray-clad figure, appearing for the second time on Reba's threshold.
"Not yet."
Aunt Augusta again approached Reba's bed and this time laid her hand upon her forehead. "Why, you're hot!"
A little moan escaped from Reba. Aunt Augusta leaned nearer.
