“I will—hic.”
Will felt his way along the base of the wall until he came to the lane. The stones in the wall were smooth with the slime accumulating there for years, and it was hard work to get his feet out of the mud, and very hard then to get them up and over the wall. He succeeded though, and grasping a rail-fence and mounting it, dropped down into the lane.
“Glad to touch solid ground,” thought Will, “though I be in my stocking-feet.”
He hurried to Aunt Stanshy’s door, which had been left unlocked for his admittance, and opening it, stepped upon the entry oil-cloth.
“Tick—tick! Who comes here?” the old clock now seemed to say, loudly, solemnly ticking.
“How I shall muddy this sacred floor! Can’t help it, though! Aunt Stanshy,” he now began to call; at the same time he rapped on the baluster. “Aunt Stanshy!”
He looked up and saw the light from the lamp that she kept burning at night. Soon there was the sound of a stirring, and a tall figure in white bent over the railing. A second and smaller statue of snow was there in a moment, leaning over the railing by the side of Aunt Stanshy.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’ve just come from the dock, and—”
“Why, you look like a mud-turtle,” said Aunt Stanshy, bending over still farther and holding out the lamp, whose light fell on Will.