Her dream had been only half a dream, after all.
The moonlight was darkened by clouds, there was low, rumbling thunder, followed by flashes of lightning, and a fitful rain was driven into the porch by the wayward wind, wetting Floy’s face and hands and dress. It was this that had woven itself in with her dream and awakened her to unpleasant reality.
Dazed and wondering, she sprung to her feet, and it was several minutes before she could realize her position.
Then it came to her that Maybelle had dared her to spend a night alone at Suicide Place, and she had vowed she would do it.
She had come and fallen asleep on the porch and dreamed that exquisite dream that was so lovely until—Maybelle came.
“How strange that I should dream of Maybelle’s lover—and dream that he was mine!” she murmured, wonderingly, as she hurried into the house out of the muttering storm.
Fortunately she had brought some matches, and she knew that there was a lamp in the parlor, so letting herself in, she hurriedly lighted the lamp, throwing its feeble glare on the dark oak furniture of the long apartment.
“Whew! what a musty old place!” she ejaculated, throwing open a window, heedless of the fine mist of rain that came blowing in, mixed with delicious fresh air and gusts of delicate perfume from great lilac-trees outside loaded with white and purple blooms.
Then she uttered a cry of dismay and looked back half fearfully over her shoulder at a piano in a dark corner.
The lid was closed, but from the keys were coming low, discordant sounds, as of music played by childish hands all ignorant of time or tune. It was terrible, that sound, and Floy, who had never known fear before, felt as if ice-cold water were trickling down her spine.