Then a quick suspicion came to her, and running straight to the instrument, she threw back the lid.
Several mice that, alarmed by her entrance, had been running up and down the keys, producing discordant notes, jumped out upon the floor and ran away into the dark corners with little frightened squeaks.
Floy laughed aloud merrily:
“Just as I suspected, after my first moment of terror at that sudden sound. But a cowardly person would have sworn it was a ghost playing the piano. I wonder if that discord was the sweet music I heard in my dream?”
She threw herself into a large easy-chair cushioned in leather, and closed her eyes.
“I am not the least bit afraid—not the least,” she declared aloud. “But I wish I could go to sleep again and dream the first half of that lovely dream.”
But slumber refused to visit her eyes again. She felt preternaturally wide awake.
Rising, she paced up and down the room, listening to the muttering of the storm outside, and the wild rain driving against the creaking old windows.
Several old family portraits hung against the walls, and the eyes of those buried ancestors seemed to follow her up and down with grim curiosity as she moved to and fro.
Such a thing will seriously annoy one sometimes. The eyes of a portrait may take on a living look, and render one horribly nervous when alone at midnight.