Her bedroom (on the ground floor) looked out upon a small cabbage-plot in which Brother Bonaday, until warned by the doctor, had employed his leisure.
It was a wilderness now.
As a rule Corona slept with her lattice wide to the fullest extent: and at any time (upon an alarm of fire, for example) she could have slipped her small body out through the opening with ease.
To-night she drew the frame of the window closer than usual, and pinned it on the perforated bar; so close that her small body could not squeeze through it even if she should walk in her sleep.
She was a conscientious child.

She only forbore to close it tight because it was wicked to go without fresh air.
She stole into bed and curled herself up comfortably.

For some reason or other the touch of the cold pillow drew a tear or two.
But after a very little while she slept, still hugging her doll.
There was no sound to disturb her; no sound but the soft dripping, now and again, of a cinder in the grate before which Brother Bonaday sat, with misery in his heart.
"Corona!" The voice was low and tremulous.

It followed on the sound of a loud sneeze.

Either the voice or the sneeze (or both) aroused her, and she sat up in bed with a start.