“Wouldn't trust. Good night, ma'am.” Auntie Nan hopped upstairs in her rustling dress, relieved and glad in the sweet selfishness of her love to get rid of Pete and have Philip to herself.
XVI.
Pete went off whistling in the darkness, with the dog driving ahead of him. “I'm to blame, though,” he thought. “Should have gone home directly.”
The town was now quiet, the streets were deserted, and Pete began to run. “She'd be alone, too. That must have been Nancy in the crowd yonder by Mistress Beatty's. 'Lowed her out to see the do, it's like. Ought to be back now, though.”
As Pete came near to Elm Cottage, the moon over the tree-tops lit up the panes of the upper windows as with a score of bright lamps. One step more, and the house was dark.
“She'll be waiting for me. Listening, too, I'll go bail.”
He was at the gate by this time, and the dog was panting at his feet with its nose close to the lattice.
“Be quiet, dog, be quiet.”
Then he raised the latch without a sound, stepped in on tiptoe, and closed the gate as silently behind him.