WITHIN THE ANCIENT HOUSE SAT THE OWNER, RICHARD WILBRAHAM
It was a wild night, and within the ancient house sat the owner, Richard Wilbraham, his wife not far away, trying to find room upon her husband's last remaining pair of socks to darn them. Wilbraham gazed silently into the glowing embers on the hearth before them, the stillness of the evening broken only by the hissing of the logs on the andirons and an occasional sigh from one of the watchers.
Finally the woman spoke.
"When does the mortgage fall due, Richard?" she asked, moving uneasily in her chair.
"To-morrow," gulped the man, the word seeming to catch in his throat and choke him.
"And you—you are sure Colonel Digby will not renew it?" she queried.
"He even declines to discuss the matter," said Wilbraham. "He contents himself with shaking it in my face every time I approach his office, while he tells his office-boy to escort me to the door. I don't believe in signs, Ethelinda, but I do believe that that is an omen that if the money is not forthcoming at noon to-morrow you and I will be roofless by this time to-morrow night."
The woman shuddered.
"But, Richard," she protested, "you—you had put by the money to pay it long ago. What has become of it?"