“Oh, what is the matter?” she shrieked aloud in fear and grief, springing up and rushing to the door.
For she had been startled from her calm, sweet sleep by the unwonted sounds of heavy footsteps lumbering in at the front door, while over all rose shrill, agonized cries in a woman’s voice—cries of bitter bereavement.
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE MESHES OF HER HUNGRY FATE.
Floy stood scared and trembling at the head of the stairs, trying to make out what was going on below.
She presently recognized that it was the voice of Mrs. Banks, uplifted in those grievous cries, and a conviction of the truth rushed over her mind—something terrible had happened to John Banks.
The tender-hearted wife had always been nervous over his trade of house-builder—always forebode an accident.
Tears rushed blindingly to Floy’s sweet blue eyes, and her heart sunk heavily as she thought:
“Poor, poor auntie! Her life-long presentiments are realized at last.”
For what else could be meant by those heavy, lumbering steps down-stairs, and those doleful cries in the little house that was usually so calm and peaceful?