As he spoke he gave his foot a stamp, with the result that at each movement there was a sharp cracking sound.
“It’s very strange. Louise!”
“Oh!”
A low, piteous moan.
“What’s that?” cried Uncle Luke sharply.
George Vine stood in the darkness paralysed with dread.
Some fresh trouble had befallen his house—some new horror assailed him; and his hand wandered vaguely about in search of support as a terrible feeling of sickness came over him, and he muttered hoarsely, “Louise! my child! my child!”
Luke Vine was alarmed, but he did not lose his presence of mind.
“Margaret—a fit,” he said to himself, as, turning quickly, his foot kicked against another portion of the lamp-globe, which tinkled loudly as it fell to pieces.
He brushed by his brother, hurrying out into the hall, to return directly bearing the lamp which stood on a bracket, and holding it high above his head as he stepped carefully across the carpet.