“By this time we were on the attic stairs; and the door at the foot of the stairs—a solid, old-fashioned country door—was safely bolted behind us.
“That door was the only means of access to the attic; and on the head of the stairs we all sat down to take breath. Then in mother the anxious housewife began to reappear.
“‘What was that the horrid brute broke in the parlor, Susan?’ she queried.
“‘Must a’ been them dishes on the little table by the winder, ma’am,’ responded the girl.
“And then we heard a clatter again, as the beast, in springing out of the window, knocked the fragments of pottery aside.
“In a few moments he found another entrance. The soft pat, pat of his great furry feet could be heard on the lower stairs. He was evidently hungry, and much puzzled at our sudden disappearance.
“We could hear him sniffing around, in and out of the bedrooms, and at last that soft, persistent tread found its way to the attic door.
“How he did sniff about the bottom of that door till the blood of his prisoners ran cold with horror! Then he began to scratch, which was more than they could stand.
“Terror lent them invention, and mother put me into a basket of old clothes, while she helped Susan drag a heavy bedstead to the head of the stairs. This bedstead effectually blocked the narrow stairway, and when they had piled a chest of drawers on top of it they once more felt secure.
“All this trouble was unneeded, however, as that door, opening outward, was an insurmountable barrier to the panther.