Molly stood there in the moonlight clad in her beautiful fur wrap, gazing after the departing team. Lightning saw her hand raised in farewell. Then she turned sharply and passed into the house. And the door closed behind her.
When Lightning thrust open the door he discovered Molly seated at the table. She sat there a ghostly little figure, still wrapped in her fur cloak, with the shaft of moonlight pouring in through the window falling athwart her. Otherwise the room was in complete darkness.
Lightning gazed at her in some alarm. Perhaps it was the moonlight that had transformed her. Her face was pale almost to ghastliness. It was pathetically drawn, and her eyes gazed up at him so wide, so helpless, so piteously. She had raised her head at the old man’s intrusion, and something like reproach was in her silent greeting.
Lightning left the door open and came to the table. His eyes were smiling softly, and he stood for a moment regarding the queer, huddled figure, while his mind searched for the greeting that would not betray him.
“Guess you had a swell time, Molly, gal?” he said. There was no reply. The girl sat still—so still. Her elbows were thrust upon the table, and her small, clenched hands supported the oval of her cheeks that looked so ghastly in the moonlight.
Lightning moved up to the table. Then he glanced about him in the darkness beyond the moonlight.
“Best fix the lamp,” he said.
“No, no!”
Molly’s denial came almost fiercely. And instantly the man abandoned his search.