up later than usual at the farmhouse that night, for Melinda and her mother had been over there, and the boys had made molasses candy, and “stuck up” every dish and spoon, as Mrs. Markham said.  Tim had come after his mother and sister, and as he had a good deal to say, the clock struck eleven before the guests departed, and Andy buttoned the door of the woodshed and put the nail over the window by the sink.  Mrs. Markham had no suspicion of the trial in store for her, but for some cause she felt restless and nervous, and even scary, as she expressed it herself.  “Worked too hard, I guess,” she thought, as she tied on her high-crowned, broad-frilled nightcap, and then as a last chore, wound the clock before stepping into bed.

It was nearly midnight, and for some little time she lay awake listening to the wind as it swept past the house, or screamed through the key-hole of the door.  But she did not hear the night train when it thundered through the town; nor the gate as it swung back upon its hinges; nor the swift step coming up the walk; nor the tap upon her window until it was repeated, and Richard’s voice called faintly, “Mother, mother, let me in!”

Andy, who was as good as a watch-dog, was awake by this time, and with his window open was looking down at the supposed burglar, while his hand felt for some missile to hurl at the trespasser’s head.  With a start, Mr. Markham awoke, and, springing up, listened till the voice said again, “Mother, mother, it’s I; let me in!”

The Japan candlestick Andy had secured was dropped in a trice, and adjusting his trousers as he descended the stairs, he reached the door simultaneously with his mother, and pulling Richard into the hall, asked why he was there, and what had happened.  Richard did not know for certain that anything had happened.  “Ethie was most probably with Mrs. Amsden.  She would be home to-morrow,” and Andy felt how his brother leaned against him and his hand pressed upon his shoulders as he went to the stove, and crouched down before it just as he had done in Camden.  The candle was lighted, and its dim light fell upon that strange group gathered there at midnight, and looking into each other’s faces with a wistful questioning as to what it all portended.

“It is very cold; make more fire,” Richard said, shivering, as the sleet came driving against the window; and in an instant all the morning kindlings were thrust into the stove, which roared and crackled, and hissed, and diffused a sense of warmth and comfort through the shadowy room.

“What is it, Richard?  What makes you so white and queer?” his mother asked, trying to pull on her stockings, and in her trepidation jamming her toes into the heel, and drawing her shoe over the bungle thus made at the bottom of her foot.

“Ethie was not there, and has not been since the night I left.  She sold her piano, and took the money, and her trunk, and her clothes, and went to visit Mrs. Amsden.”