The thing disappeared. Slowly, silently, as it had come, so it went. From nowhere to nowhere,—it evolved from the darkness and to the darkness returned.
Vernie didn’t faint, but she suffered excruciatingly; her head was on fire, her flesh crept and quivered, she was bathed in a cold perspiration, and her heart beat madly, wildly, as if it would burst.
The vision, though gone, remained etched on her brain, and she knew that until that faded she could not move or speak.
It seemed to her hours, but at last the tension lessened a little. The first move was agony, but by degrees she changed her position a trifle and moistened her dry lips.
With the first faint glimmer of dawn, she dragged herself upstairs and crept into bed beside Eve Carnforth.
“Tell me,” begged Eve, and Vernie told her.
“It was a warning,” said the child, solemnly. “It means I shall die at four o’clock some morning.”
“Nonsense, Kiddie! Now you’ve come through so bravely, and have such an experience to tell, don’t spoil it all by such croaking.”
“But it’s true, Eve. I could see that awful thing’s face, and it counted four, and then beckoned,—sort of shook its finger, you know, and pointed at me. And—oh, I hardly noticed at the time, but it carried a glass in its hand—it seemed to have two glasses——”
“Oh, come now, dearie, you’re romancing. How could it have two glasses, when it was shaking its hand at you?”