21 
Reading Night
When they arrived back at the chalet, the sun was setting. The moment they walked in, the long day suddenly caught up with Amanda. She flopped into a chair in front of the fireplace. When supper was called, she found herself nearly too exhausted to pull herself to her feet and shuffle to the table.
“How are your legs?” asked Sister Gretchen.
“Worn out!” moaned Amanda. “I am not used to such exercise.”
The warm meal with the sisters, however, revived her spirits considerably. It was reading night, and though she could hardly keep her eyes open, she would not miss it for anything. She had looked forward to it all day.
After cleaning up the dishes, they adjourned into the sitting room, where Gretchen had a fire blazing nicely in the hearth. They gathered around in chairs and couches. Sister Hope brought in a tray with two teapots, then returned for a tray of cups. Ten minutes later everyone was settled and cozy, warm cups in their hands, and ready for the evening’s literary adventure.
They were just finishing up a book written in 1875 by the Scotsman who was one of Amanda’s father’s favorite authors, though she did not at present make the connection.
Sister Anika, who had been reading this particular volume to the others, picked it up, found her place, and continued where she had last left off. She read for perhaps an hour, then concluded with the following words:
That same night Mrs. Catanach also disappeared.
A week after, what was left of Lord Lossie was buried. Malcolm followed the hearse with the household. Miss Horn walked immediately behind him on the arm of the schoolmaster.
Lady Florimel wept incessantly for three days; on the fourth she looked out on the sea and thought it very dreary; on the fifth she found a certain gratification in hearing herself called the marchioness; on the sixth she tried on her mourning dress and was pleased; on the seventh she went with the funeral and wept again; on the eighth came Lady Bellair, who on the ninth carried her away.
To Malcolm she had not once spoken.
Mr. Graham left Portlossie.
Miss Horn took to her bed for a week.
Mr. Crathie removed his office in the House, took upon himself the function of steward as well as factor, had the staterooms dismantled, and was master of the place.
Malcolm helped Stoat with the horses, and did odd jobs for Mr. Crathie. From his likeness to the old marquis, as he was still called, the factor had a favour for him, firmly believing the said marquis to be his father, and Mrs. Stewart his mother. Hence he allowed him a key to the library, of which Malcolm made good use.
The story of Malcolm’s plans, and what came of them, requires another book.
The chalet fell silent for a few moments.
Suddenly everyone was aware again of the blackness of the night outside the windows, and that the evening had advanced. A few heads began to look about, expecting Sister Anika to go on.
Slowly it began to dawn on one, then another, that she was not going on.
“What—that’s not the end!” cried Sister Regina.
“That is it,” said Anika, who now closed the book with a flourish of finality.
“But I want more!”
“It is as he says,” rejoined Anika, “the rest of the story requires another book.”
“Then let’s start it immediately!” Regina insisted. “That ending was too abrupt.”
“I thought we were going to read something older next, from the eighteenth century,” said Sister Marjolaine.
“Hadn’t someone suggested Robinson Crusoe?” Hope asked.
“But we can’t leave off Malcolm’s story now,” pled Regina. “Please, we have to read the next one!”
“Do we have it in the library?” asked Agatha.
“I believe so,” Anika replied.
“I don’t think we had better continue with anything else just now,” Hope said, “or we shall lose our dear Amanda.”
“I am still awake!” Amanda objected drowsily from her chair.
“Yes, but I’ve been watching those heavy eyelids of yours!”
“Well then, we shall have time to think about the books that have been suggested before next time,” Marjolaine laughed. “And I am ready to make acquaintance with my bed too, along with Amanda!”