Not of the storm, but of the great house. She was so small and it was so big. Her own little cottage clasped her in its warm embrace. This great mansion stood away from her—as the sky stands away from the desert. All the rest of her life she would be going up and down those great stairs, sitting in front of this great fireplace, presiding at the far end of Frederick’s great table—dwarfed by it all, losing personality, individuality, bidding good-bye forever to little Jane Barnes, becoming until death parted them the wife of Frederick Towne.
She sat huddled in her chair, panting a little, her eyes wide.
The sound of her voice echoed and reëchoed, “Silly, silly, silly.”
The noise without was deafening—the wind shook the walls. She stood up, her hands clenched, then ran swiftly into the hall.
A thundering crash and the lights went out.
She heard Frederick calling, “Jane, Jane!”
She called back, “I’m here,” and saw the quick spurt of a match as he lighted it, holding it up and peering into the dark.
“There you are, my dearest.” He lighted another match and came towards her, as Waldron, with a brace of candles, appeared in one door and Baldy and Edith in another.
Frederick lifted Jane in his strong arms. “Why, you’re crying,” he said; “don’t, my darling, don’t.”