her mind the seriousness of Mr. Reynolds' illness, nor could she forget Michael's solemn belief that ill luck lay heavy on the place and would not be driven away.
"It's nonsense," she told herself again and again. "Why did I ever listen to him?"
The pressure of excitement and distress became greater and greater instead of less, became almost unendurable. She sat down before Miss Miranda's desk and lifted her hand to the key of the toy cupboard. How often she had read in fairy stories of how the heroine of the tale, when in complete despair, would break the magic nut, uncover the enchanted box for a charm to bring help in time of need. She felt as though it were much the same thing she was doing when she opened the doors of the toy cupboard.
One after another she took down the treasures and set them before her, the silver Saint Christopher, the little jade tree, the bowls and cups, the ornaments and carvings. She tried to recollect the stories she had heard but a few days ago, the gay adventures, the odd, absorbing tales. Yet she came wandering back to the two of which she had heard first, the silver saint and the little tree. They seemed to be more closely bound up with her daily life, with Michael's superstition and with that steadfast purpose that dwelt in the Reynolds' blood.
