"Mr. Willcoxen!"
He did not hear her—how should he hear her low tones, when he heard not the cannonading of the storm that shook the house to its foundations?
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she said once more.
But he moved not a muscle.
"Mr. Willcoxen!" she repeated, laying her hand upon his arm.
He looked up. The expression of haggard despair softened out of his countenance.
"Is it you, my dear?" he said. "What has brought you here, Miriam? Were you afraid of the storm? There is no danger, dear child—it has nearly expended its force, and will soon be over—but sit down."
"Oh, no! it is not the storm that has brought me here, though I scarcely remember a storm so violent at this season of the year, except one—this night seven years ago—the night that Marian Mayfield was murdered!"
He started—it is true that he had been thinking of the same dread tragedy—but to hear it suddenly mentioned pierced him like an unexpected sword thrust.
Miriam proceeded, speaking in a strange, level monotone, as if unwilling or afraid to trust her voice far: