“No, I've got enough to worry about this side of the grave. . . . Mercy! what's the matter?”
“Nothing! I—I thought I heard a noise in—in the hall. I didn't though.”
“No, course you didn't. Shall I go to your room with you?”
“No indeed! I—I should be ashamed to have you. Where is Imogene?”
“She's up in her room. She went to bed early. Goodness! Hear that wind. It cries like—like somethin' human.”
“It's dreadful. It is enough to make anyone think. . . . There! If you and I talk any longer we shall both be behaving like children. Good night.”
“Good night, Emily. Is Georgie asleep at last?”
“I think so. I haven't heard a sound from him. Call me early, Auntie.”
Thankful lit her own lamp; Emily took the one already lighted and hastened down the hall. Thankful shut the door and prepared for bed. The din of the storm was terrific. The old house shook as if it were trembling with fright and screaming in the agony of approaching dissolution. It was a long time before Thankful fell asleep, but at last she did.
She was awakened by a hand upon her arm and a voice whispering in her ear.