Then one still night the frost silvered the land, and the raccoons whistled from the beach-woods on the ridges, and old man Jocelyn’s daughter crept from her chilly bed to the window which framed a staring, frosty moon.
Through the silence she heard a whisper like the discreet rustle of silken hangings. It was the sound of leaves falling through the darkness. She peered into the night, where, unseen, the delicate fingers of the frost were touching a million leaves, and as each little leaf was summoned she heard it go, whispering obedience.
Now the moonlight seemed to saturate her torn, thin night-gown and lie like frost on her body; and she crept to the door of her room, shivering, and called, “Father!”
He answered heavily, and the bed in the next room creaked.
“There is a frost,” she said; “shall I load the cartridges?”
She could hear him stumble out of bed and grope for the window.
Presently he yawned loudly and she heard him tumble back into bed.
“There won’t be no flight to-night,” he said; “the birds won’t move for twenty-four hours. Go to bed, Jess.”
“But there are sure to be a few droppers in to-night,” she protested.
“Go to bed,” he said, shortly.