Eve, her long, glittering eyes half closed, listened for any sound; her nerves alert, her thoughts darting from material things to the supernatural, every muscle tense with a nameless apprehension.
More hours were rung out by the old clock, and at last dawn began to creep in at the deep narrow windows of the old house.
With a shrug and a stretch Vernie awoke. Drowsily, in the half light she tried to make out her surroundings, and then, suddenly remembering where she was, she dove her head under her blanket, in a quick rush of fear. Then curiosity conquered, and she came to the surface again, and looked about. The light, growing gradually stronger, showed the appointments of the room, the ugly old four-poster bedstead, of light wood,—apple or hickory,—the heavy rep lambrequins, that seemed to be a feature of the house, and the scantily appointed dresser, on which, the night before, she had set her extinguished candle.
Shadows still lurked in the corners of the room, still hung round the draperies and furniture, yet through the gloom Vernie saw something that made her eyes stare and her flesh creep. Clenching her hands till her sharp nails bit into her palms, she gave a shriek that rang through the silent house.
CHAPTER IV
The Story of the House
From their nearby rooms Eve and Norma rushed to Vernie’s room.
The child was huddled beneath the bed clothes and at their entrance shot her head out, crying wildly, “Look! look! the old candlestick!”
Milly came running, in dressing-gown and slippers, and from distant regions came the voices of the men.
“What’s the matter?” asked Gifford Bruce. “Wasn’t that Vernie’s voice?”
“Yes, Uncle Gif,” Vernie called out. “Oh, did you do it?”