contrary, I was glad to hear them.  They would make the people in the house indifferent to sounds.  But at last it seems as if everything were quiet.  Only the pendulum of an old clock ticks loudly and solemnly in the dining-room:  one can hear the heavy, long-drawn, even breathing of the sleepers.  I am just going to get up when something buzzes in my ears:  suddenly there is a creaking sound, and something soft falls, and the sound spreads itself in waves along the walls of the room.  Or was it nothing, after all, but fancy?  At last it has all died away, and the darkness and churchyard stillness of night descend.  Now is the time!  Cold with anticipation, I throw off the bed-clothes, let my feet glide down to the floor, stand up:  one step—­a second—­I creep along; the soles of my feet don’t seem to belong to me; they are heavy and my steps are weak and uncertain.  Stop! what is that noise?  Is it some one filing, scraping or snoring?  I listen with a feeling as if ants were running over my cheeks, my eyes filling with cold tears.  It is nothing.  I creep along again.  It is dark, but I know the way.  Suddenly I hit against a chair.  What a racket! and how it hurts!  I hit just on my knee-pan.  I shall die here.  Now will they wake up?  Well, let them!  Boldness and crossness come to my aid.  Forward!  Now I have passed through the dining-room:  I reach the door and shove it open, but the confounded hinge creaks.  Never mind!  Now I’m going up the stairs—­one! two! one! two!  One step creaks beneath my tread:  I look down angrily, as if I could see it.  Now the second door!  I seize the handle:  it does not rattle.  It swings softly open.  Thank Heaven!  I’m in the entry at last.  In the upper entry is a little window beneath the roof.  The faint light of the night-sky shines through the dim panes, and by the uncertain light I make out our maid-servant lying on a fur robe on the floor, her tangled head supported by both hands.  She sleeps soundly, with light, quick breathing, and just behind her head is the fatal door.  I step over the robe, over the girl.  Who was it opened the door?  I don’t know, but I am in my aunt’s room.  There is the lamp in one corner and the bed in the other, and my aunt in night-gown and cap in bed with her face toward me.  She is asleep; she does not stir; even her breathing is inaudible.  The flame of the lamp wavers slightly with the fresh draught, and the shadows dance through the whole room and on my aunt’s yellow, waxen hair.

And there is the watch!  It is hanging behind the bed in an embroidered watch-pocket on the wall.  That’s lucky!  I hesitate, but there is no use in delaying.  But what are these—­soft, quick footsteps behind me?  Oh no, it is only my heart beating.  I take a step forward.  Heavens!  Something round and quite large touches me just below the knee once and then again.  I am on the point of crying out:  I am near sinking to the ground with terror.  A striped cat, our cat, stands before me with her back curved and her