above the average.But there! How in the nation did I get onto this subject? You and me settin' here on other folks's furniture--or what was furniture once--soppin' wet through and half froze, and me talkin' about troubles that's all dead and done with! What DIDget me started? Oh, yes, the storm.I was just thinkin' how most of the important things in my life had had bad weather mixed up with 'em.Come to think of it, it rained the day Mrs.Pearson was buried.And her dyin' was what set me to thinkin' of cruisin' down here to East Wellmouth and lookin' at the property Uncle Abner left me.I've never laid eyes on that property and I don't even know what the house looks like.I might have asked that depot-wagon driver, but I thought 'twas no use tellin' him my private affairs, so I said we was bound to the hotel, and let it go at that.If Ihad asked he might at least have told me where....Hey? Why--why--my land! I never thought of it, but it might be! It might!
Emily!"
But Miss Howes' eyes were closed now.In spite of her wet garments and her nervousness concerning their burglarious entry of the empty house she had fallen asleep.Thankful did not attempt to wake her.
Instead she tiptoed to the kitchen and the woodbox, took from the latter the last few slabs of pine wood and, returning, filled the stove to the top.Then she sat down in the chair once more.
For some time she sat there, her hands folded in her lap.
Occasionally she glanced about the room and her lips moved as if she were talking to herself.Then she rose and peered out of the window.Rain and blackness and storm were without, but nothing else.She returned to the sofa and stood looking down at the sleeper.Emily stirred a little and shivered.
That shiver helped to strengthen the fears in Mrs.Barnes' mind.
The girl was not strong.She had come home from her school duties almost worn out.A trip such as this had been was enough to upset even the most robust constitution.She was wet and cold.Sleeping in wet clothes was almost sure to bring on the dreaded pneumonia.
If only there might be something in that house, something dry and warm with which to cover her.
"Emily," said Thankful, in a low tone."Emily."The sleeper did not stir.Mrs.Barnes took up the lantern.Its flame was much less bright than it had been and the wick sputtered.
She held the lantern to her ear and shook it gently.The feeble "swash" that answered the shake was not reassuring.The oil was almost gone.
Plainly if exploring of those upper rooms was to be done it must be done at once.With one more glance at the occupant of the sofa Mrs.Barnes, lantern in hand, tiptoed from the room, through the barren front hall and up the stairs.The stairs creaked abominably.Each creak echoed like the crack of doom.
At the top of the stairs was another hall, long and narrow, extending apparently the whole length of the house.At intervals along this hall were doors.One after the other Thankful opened them.The first gave entrance to a closet, with a battered and ancient silk hat and a pasteboard box on the shelf.The next opened into a large room, evidently the spare bedroom.It was empty.So was the next and the next and the next.No furniture of any kind.Thankful's hope of finding a quilt or a wornout blanket, anything which would do to cover her sleeping and shivering relative, grew fainter with the opening of each door.
There were an astonishing number of rooms and closets.Evidently this had been a big, commodious and comfortable house in its day.
But that day was long past its sunset.Now the bigness only emphasized the dreariness and desolation.Dampness and spider webs everywhere, cracks in the ceiling, paper peeling from the walls.
And around the gables and against the dormer-windows of these upper rooms the gale shrieked and howled and wailed like a drove of banshees.
The room at the very end of the long hall was a large one.It was at the back of the house and there were windows on two sides of it.
It was empty like the others, and Mrs.Barnes, reluctantly deciding that her exploration in quest of coverings had been a failure, was about to turn and retrace her steps to the stairs when she noticed another door.
It was in the corner of the room furthest from the windows and was shut tight.A closet, probably, and all the closets she had inspected so far had contained nothing but rubbish.However, Thankful was not in the habit of doing things by halves, so, the feebly sputtering lantern held in her left hand, she opened the door with the other and looked in.Then she uttered an exclamation of joy.
It was not a closet behind that door, but another room.A small room with but one little window, low down below the slope of the ceiling.But this room was to some extent furnished.There was a bed in it, and a rocking chair, and one or two pictures hanging crookedly upon the wall.Also, and this was the really important thing, upon that bed was a patchwork comforter.
Thankful made a dash for that comforter.She set the lantern down upon the floor and snatched the gayly colored thing from the bed.
And, as she did so, she heard a groan.
There are always noises in an empty house, especially an old house.
Creaks and cracks and rustlings mysterious and unexplainable.When the wind blows these noises are reenforced by a hundred others.In this particular house on this particular night there were noises enough, goodness knows.Howls and rattles and moans and shrieks.
Every shutter and every shingle seemed to be loose and complaining of the fact.As for groans--old hinges groan when the wind blows and so do rickety gutters and water pipes.But this groan, or so it seemed to Mrs.Barnes, had a different and distinct quality of its own.It sounded--yes, it sounded human.
Thankful dropped the patchwork comforter.
"Who's that?" she asked, sharply.
There was no answer.No sounds except those of the storm.
Thankful picked up the comforter.
"Humph!" she said aloud--talking to herself was a habit developed during the years of housekeeping for deaf old Mrs.Pearson.
