"No, leave the shades up, please! I want the windows left so that Leah, if she comes, may look in. I feel somehow that she is near here, that she will come this evening, if she dares."
"Why haven't you been out where she could see you, then? Have you thought to call her?"
She looked at me blankly. "Why, I haven't thought of that, have I? But would she dare come?"
"Try it now!" I exclaimed.
"I will!" She went to the front door and threw it open and cried:
"Leah!—Leah!—Leah! Come here! It's all right. I want you, dear!"
There was enough in the scene—the stillness that ensued, the gathering mysterious twilight that shrouded the house, the tragic quaver in Joy's voice—to make me thrill to its dramatic power. She stood there for a few minutes, all in white, waiting, her hands clasped on her breast, vividly illuminated by the candles. But no sound came out of the shadows of the night.
Joy closed the door; then, with quick second thought, she returned to leave it ajar, and came back into the library.
We had moved almost to the dining-room, when, on a sudden whim, she paused, turned and looked toward the window. My own eyes followed hers. There was a dark face peering in—so dark that the whites of the eyes and the teeth were almost all that was visible, though enough to show who it was.
"Leah!" Joy cried, and ran again to the door, crying out hysterically. She called again, but no answer came.