It was at about half-past ten that night, that Jane, who was rarely in bed at the prescribed time, happened to remember that Elise had left “Ivanhoe” on the dining room mantel piece; she felt also, that an apple or two was just what she wanted to subdue a certain mild emptiness. The household was perfectly still, and so, taking off her slippers, she stole down-stairs in her stocking feet, to get her book, and rummage in the larder.
There was still a faint glow of firelight in the dining room.
Half-way to the kitchen door she stopped, arrested by a movement in the room, and with her heart beating violently, peered about her. Then she saw that someone was sitting in Granny’s chair. For a moment, she could not move a muscle, then, mustering up her courage, she quavered,
“Who—who is that?”
The figure in the chair gave a violent start, then with a little laugh Paul’s voice said,
“Is that you, Jane?”
“Oh, Paul!” Jane gave a great sigh of relief.
“Did I frighten you?” Paul asked, getting up.
“Well, you startled me,” said Jane, who had always maintained that she was not afraid of ghosts or burglars—never having met a sample of either. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” said Paul. “What are you doing?”