The children below heard a sharp cry directly the cupboard door was opened; then the frantic dragging of a box on to the stairs, the creak of hinges—a groan long and lingering—and then silence.
They clung together in terror, and the little girls began to cry. At last Arthur took courage and opened the door.
The old man was sitting on the top stair, supported sideways by the wall, his head hanging forward, and his hands dropping over his knees, in a dead faint.
At the sight all four children ran helter-skelter into the lane, shouting "Mammy! mammy!" in an anguish of fright. Their clamour was caught by the fierce north wind, which had begun to sweep the hill, and was borne along till it reached the ears of a woman who was sitting sewing in a cottage some fifty yards further up the lane. She stepped to her door, opened it and listened.
"It's at Bessie's," she said; "whativer's wrong wi' the childer?"
By this time Arthur had begun to run towards her. Darkness was falling rapidly, but she could distinguish his small figure against the snow, and his halting gait.
"What is it, Arthur?—what is it, lammie?"
"O Cousin Mary Anne! Cousin Mary Anne! It's Uncle John, an' 'ee's dead!"
She ran like the wind at the words, catching at the child's hand in the dark, and dragging him along with her.
"Where is he, Arthur?—don't take on, honey!"