"Yes, dear; here is some water."
"But I would so like to have some milk."
"Where is it, Jennie?"
"Down-stairs we have a closet under the stoop, and there's an ice-box there. A lump of ice in the milk would be so delicious!"
"So it would. Shall I get it?"
"Yes, only— Oh dear! Winnie, you don't like going down in the dark."
No, indeed, she didn't; but what was to be done?—waken poor Mrs. Jessup, and undo all the good that had been done? On the other hand rose visions of horror—bats, rats, meeting midnight prowlers, all sorts of indescribable fears without really any cause, the echoes of a frightened childhood, when some foolish nurse had used the rod of fear to control a sensitive nervous little one who could easily have been led by love.
"Where is the key, Jennie, and the pitcher?"
"The key is just here in this little drawer, and you will find a pitcher down there. But don't go if you are afraid, Winnie. I will try to wait till morning."
"Now or never," thought Winnie, and she plunged out into the darkness. The effort gave her courage. Down, down, down she went. The candle flared and flickered; she was sure it would go out, but she had put a match or two in her pocket. She reached the door, unlocked it, poured the milk, and cracked the ice, when with a chill of horror a hoarse laugh broke the midnight stillness.