"What's—that?" she whispered hoarsely, as, by the dim light of the street-lamp on the window-glass, she saw the door open slowly, and a little figure dressed in white, glide in. "Oh Lor'—oh Mrs. Markham—(griping that lady by the arm)—it's come! Hist—there—there—oh—oh, it's coming here," whispered Timmins, as Mrs. Markham, now thoroughly roused, trembled as violently as Timmins, and both made a shuddering plunge under the bed-clothes.
"You look out, Timmins?"
"No—you, Mrs. Markham!" and both night-caps were thrust carefully from under the sides of the raised sheets.
There was the little figure—it was no illusion—flitting, gliding about the room; now here, now more distant, and now, with its pale, wan face and outstretched arms, it approaches the bed. Timmins and Markham both jump shrieking from it through the door, and fall senseless upon the entry floor.
The wicked flee when none pursueth.
Poor innocent little Rose! Waked suddenly from her somnambulistic sleep, she stands gazing about her, the unconscious avenger of little Tibbie's sufferings, and her own.