"Sounds like somethin's dyin'," Abner replied, as he took the lamp from the girl's trembling hand and turned the light upon the shed. As he did so he saw a peculiar sight. Lying on the floor, with her back to the wall, was his wife, with an expression of misery depicted upon her face. On each side of her was a little boy, hopelessly entangled in the bed-clothes, and with wide staring eyes, filled with wonder and terror. Near by he saw three other little chaps also awake, and watching all that was taking place.
"What's the meaning of this?" Abner demanded. "An' what's all that water doin' on the floor? There's as much there as there is on me an' down me neck."
Mrs. Andrews made no reply. She seemed to be greatly overcome. At once Jess stooped down and put her arms around her mother's shoulders.
"Mother dear, are you sick?" she asked. "Let me help you up. Something dreadful must have happened. Come into the kitchen."
Breathing heavily and moaning, Mrs. Andrews was rescued from her lowly position, assisted into the kitchen, and placed upon a chair.
"I'm afraid I'm dying," the woman moaned. "I never had such a fright in all my life. It was worse than the auto."
"She's luney," Abner remarked. "Her brain's turned. Better git the smellin'-salts, Jess; they'll bring her to."
"My brain's not turned," was the emphatic and unexpected protest. "You're luney yourself, Abner Andrews, and everybody knows it. What do you mean by prowling about the house at this time of night, scaring people out of their wits?"
"An' what do people mean by sleepin' in the woodshed?" Abner retorted. "How did I know ye was there with a hull bunch of kids."
"They're some of yours, though, Abner. I have as much right to bring children into this house as you have. You needn't think that you run this place."