Betty gave a little shiver. There is something uncanny in being the only occupant of a strange house.
An undefined sense of fear took possession of her, and she stood hesitating in the hall, almost determined to go no farther.
Had it been a dull, cloudy day, or nearing dusk, she would have scurried out, but in the bright, cheerful sunlight it seemed absurd to feel afraid.
Still, it was with a loudly beating heart that she stepped into a large room opening off the hall.
It was evidently the family living-room, and the familiar things about reassured her somewhat.
Several books which she looked into bore Lena’s name on the fly-leaf, and a light shawl, which she recognized as Mrs. Carey’s, was flung carelessly over a chair-back. Somehow these homelike touches comforted Betty, and she ventured further explorations.
The dining-room was in order, and Betty could not tell whether any one had eaten recently or not. But in the kitchen pantry she noted remnants of breakfasts, which were fresh enough to denote having been placed there that morning. The ice-box showed fresh milk and various cold viands, and when Betty discovered that the kitchen clock was ticking, she concluded that all was well.
“For it’s one of those little tin clocks,” she observed, “that have to be wound every day. So the Careys have just stepped out since breakfast, but why they took all the servants with them, I don’t know. Family picnic, I suppose, with no thought of their arriving guest!”
Wandering back to the front rooms, Betty started to go up-stairs, and then stopped. Suppose something awful had happened!
She paused with her foot on the lowest stair.