The downpour of the rain had a dreary, melancholy persistence, beating upon the roof and splashing from the eaves into the puddles beneath. At intervals a drop fell down the wide chimney and hissed upon the coals.
Suddenly there was another splash, differing in its abrupt energy; a foot had slipped outside, and groping hands were laid upon the wall.
Dorinda sprang up with a white face and tense muscles. The old woman was suddenly bolt upright in her corner, although not recognising the sound.
'Hurry 'long, D'rindy,' she said peremptorily, 'you-uns ain't goin' ter reel a hank ef ye don't mosey. What ails the gal?' she broke off, her attention attracted to her grand-daughter's changed expression.
'Thar's suthin' out o' doors,' said Dorinda, in a tremulous whisper. 'I hearn 'em step whenst ye war asleep.'
'I ain't batted my eye this night,' said her grandmother, with the force of conviction. 'I ain't slep' a wink. An' ye never hearn nuthin'.'
There was a bolder demonstration outside; a footfall sounded on the porch, and a hand tried the latch.
'Massy on us! Raiders!' shrieked the old woman, rising precipitately, her knitting falling from her lap, the ball of yarn rolling away and the kitten springing after it.
Dorinda ran to the door—perhaps to put up the bar. But with sudden courage she lifted the latch. Outside were the ghostly vapours, white and visible in the light from within.
She peered out doubtfully for a moment. A sudden rush of colour surged into her face; she made a feint of closing the door and ran back to her work, looking over her shoulder with radiant eyes; she caught up the broche, sticking it deftly in her shoe, seated herself in her low chair, and with her light free gesture led the thread over the reel.