Poor Mollie heard the ringing of innumerable bells as if from some land beyond the clouds. Queer lights, even in the darkness, seemed to dance before her closed eyes. She felt a pressure, a sense of suffocation—this was the stagnant blood resuming its circulation.
Then consciousness returned so suddently that it was painful. Mollie raised herself by leaning on her hands and murmured:
"Where am I? What happened? That figure in white—oh, and the girls—Betty—Grace—Amy!" she cried.
But none answered her, for by this time the others were outside watching that very welcome man approach.
Mollie waited, and then, as her thoughts arranged themselves in order in her brain, she began to plan what to do for herself.
"In the first place," she reasoned, "I am not seriously hurt. That fellow, whoever he was, just thrust me into this room. And it was no ghost, either," she went on, as she felt her arm, which she was sure had been bruised by the grasp of the mysterious one. "I'd better make a light, I think. Then I can see where I am. Oh, but what can have happened to the others? I hope he didn't get them, too!"
The thought was terrifying. She dismissed it.
