But just at that instant it was burst violently open, and the woman Bertha, with streaming hair and dripping garments, her wild, black eyes dilating with terror, stood panting before them.
"Oh, Bertha, where has thee been?" cried Uncle Reuben, in distress and alarm.
"Hush! he is there!" said the maniac, in a terrified whisper. "They killed him and left him in the forest; but I found him! Come, come, come!"
She caught Reuben by the hand, and attempted to draw him with her from the house.
"Who is killed? I don't know what thee means, Bertha," he said, perplexed.
"Come, I tell you—he is there!" she cried, with an impatient stamp of her foot, "out among the trees where they left him. Come!"
And, with the grasp of steel, she caught the surprised Reuben by the arm, and forcibly drew him with her from the house.
Left alone, Christie, somewhat amazed at first, soon forgot the circumstance, and gazing into the expiring coals, listened to the wild ravings of the storm, as it raged through the forest, with that lulling sense of security one falls into when comfortably housed. There were strange pictures in the red, dying embers, to her that night—faces lost to her forever peering out in fitful flame—now Willard's, now the dark, threatening one of handsome Sibyl Campbell, now the brisk, sharp, cheery countenance of Mrs. Tom, all fading, one after another, to give place once more to Willard's, best loved of all.
The night was wearing on apace—the last glowing ember had faded away in darkness; and, rousing herself from her dreamy reverie, as an unusually violent gust of wind shook the doors and windows, Christie raised her head, wondering uneasily what could have detained Uncle Reuben.
Just as she was beginning to get seriously anxious, the door was impetuously thrown open, and Bertha entered, followed by Uncle Reuben, bearing in his herculean arms the seemingly lifeless form of a man. Christie sprang up, and stood gazing from one to another, in terror.