As she lay wishing herself safe at home in her own bed, there was a sudden noise outside her window,—the sound of heavy footsteps. Who could be walking there at that time of night? If it was a man, he must want to steal. Mary did not for a moment fancy it might be a woman, or a "creetur" on a broomstick,—she was too sensible for that; but you will not wonder that, as she heard the footsteps come nearer and nearer, her heart almost stopped beating from fright. Siller had not coughed for some time, and was very likely asleep. If so, there was no time to be lost.
Mary sprang out of bed, and ran down stairs, whispering, "Fire! Murder! Thieves!"
That wakened Patty, who ran after her, clutching at her night-dress, and crying out, "A fief! A fief!"
For she had lost a front tooth the day before, and could not say "thief."
It was a wonder they both did not fall headlong, going at such speed.
Siller was in the kitchen, standing in the middle of the floor, with a red cloak on, staring straight before her, with a white, scared look.
"Hush, children, for mercy's sake!" she whispered, putting her handkerchief over Patty's mouth, "we're in a terrible fix! It's either thieves or murderers, or else it's witches. Yes, Polly Lyman, witches!"
"I don't hear the steps now," said Mary. "O, yes I do, too; yes I do, too."
By that time there was a loud knocking.
"It must be witches; thieves wouldn't knock," whispered Siller, tearing her back hair. "Hear 'em rattle that door! That was what it meant when I saw that black cat, just before sundown, worritting the doctor's dog. I thought then it was an imp."