"I don't know," Marian shivered.
"Whatever it is, we're not going to open that door."
"I—I don't know." The moan came distinctly now, and a scratching sound. "Perhaps we ought. Perhaps—perhaps it is some one in trouble."
Lucile was silent; she had not thought of that.
For five minutes they sat there listening. Not a word passed between them. Now and again there came that awful, low moan and the scratching. Save for the dismal wail of the wind that had arisen and was singing about the corners of the house there was no other sound. The seal-oil lamp in the corner flickered constantly, sending a weird yellow light dancing from floor to ceiling.
"Lucile," said Marian at last, "I can't stand it any longer. If it's someone in distress, they'll surely freeze, and then we could never forgive ourselves. The chain will let the door open a crack. If it's a bear, or a wolf, or a wild dog, he can't break the chain. If it's someone, whoever he is, even if he's drunk, we ought to help him."
Lucile shivered, but she arose and, fumbling about, found the butcher knife.
"I'll stand by with the knife." She followed Marian, as they tiptoed toward the door.
The moon was shining brightly through the window. Whatever was at the door, they would be able to see it once the door was open a crack.
"Now! Ready!" whispered Marian, as she grasped the doorknob and turned it.