"An ye got a match?" he asked her.
"No," she said, drily, "I don't carry matches. But I can tell you I don't like being in the dark at all." Her voice came to him out of nothing, and had a most curious effect on his spine. "Where are you, Mr. Ollerenshaw?"
"I'm a-sitting here," he replied.
"Well," said she, "if you can't find a match, I think you had better lead me to the door. I certainly can't find my way there myself. Where is your hand?"
Then a hand touched his shoulder and burnt him. "Is that you?" asked the voice.
"Ay!" he said.
And he took the hand, and the hand squeezed his hand—squeezed it violently. It may have been due to fear, it may have been due to mere inadvertence on the part of the hand; but the hand did, with unmistakable, charming violence, squeeze his hand.
And he rose.
"What's that light there?" questioned the voice, in a whisper.
"Where?" he whispered also.