They both, however, tried to ignore the fact that they were alone in the old house, far up on the mountainside, and a considerable distance from any neighbor.
That was why they chattered so all through supper–and afterward. Neither girl cared to let silence fall upon the room.
The singing of the kettle on the crane was a blessing. It made music that drove away “that lonesome feeling.” And when it actually bubbled over and the drip of it fell hissing into the fire, ’Phemie laughed as though it were a great joke.
“Such a jolly thing as an open fire is, I declare,” she said, sitting down at last in one of the low, splint-bottomed chairs, when the supper dishes were put away. “I don’t blame Grandfather Phelps for refusing to allow stoves to be put up in his day.”
“I fancy it would take a deal of wood to heat the old house in real cold weather,” Lyddy said. “But it is cheerful.”
“Woo-oo! woo-oo-oo!” moaned the wind around the corner of the house. A ghostly hand rattled a shutter. Then a shrill whistle in the chimney startled them.
At such times the sisters talked all the faster–and louder. It was really quite remarkable how much they found to say to each other.
They wondered how father was getting along at the hospital, and if Aunt Jane would surely see him every day or two, and write them. Then they exchanged comments upon what they had seen of Bridleburg, and finally fell back upon the Pritchetts as a topic of conversation–and that family seemed an unfailing source of suggestion until finally ’Phemie jumped up, declaring:
“What’s the use of this, Lyd? Let’s go to bed. We’re both half scared to death, but we’ll be no worse off in bed—And, b-r-r-r! the fire’s going down.”
They banked the fire as Lucas had advised them, put out the lamp, and retired with the candle to the bedroom. The straw mattress rustled as though it were full of mice, when the sisters had said their prayers and climbed into bed. ’Phemie blew out the candle; but she had laid matches near it on the high stand beside her pillow.