There was silence for a moment—no, not altogether a silence, for the noise of the storm indicated that it was not in the least lessening, but there was comparative quiet in the room, and then again came that strange bluish, flickering glare, and the metallic clanging sound. Then there was that startling, hollow groan, that seemed to echo and re-echo through the deserted house.
"Oh! Oh!" moaned Grace. "This is awful—terrible!"
It was sufficiently terrible there in the darkness, illuminated only by the lightning, or by that weird blue glare that seemed to come from no place in particular, but which shone through the whole room—throwing into ghastly outlines the faces of the girls.
Their lamps had gone out—or been blown out—they did not know which, and as they clung to each other, their hearts pounding, every startled nerve on the alert, Amy gasped:
"What—what made the lights go out? Can anyone tell?"
Even then, Betty confessed afterward, she felt a hysterical desire to propound the old question of where a certain Biblical personage was when the light went out, but instead Grace answered before her:
"They were blown out by—by——" she hesitated.
"By the wind!" exclaimed Mollie, quickly. "What else? There's an awful draught in here. Who has the matches?"
It was the most sensible thing she could have said under the circumstances, and it somewhat relieved the tension.
"I have some," answered Grace. "But—but what has happened, anyhow?"