“Oh, don’t—­don’t, Abner!” cried Mr. Cobb.  “Don’t, no more!  Please don’t!  I know what you mean.  I know it all.  I’m sorry.  I know I ain’t done right.  But I’ll make it right; I swear to the Almighty I will!  I know I’ve broke my word to you and acted wicked and mean, but I give you my solemn word I’ll make everything right.  Only just quit and go away, that’s all I ask.  Just quit that—­Oh, there you go again!  Quit!  Please quit!”

It was dreadful to hear, but this was not the most dreadful.  Between the agonized sentences and whenever the wind lulled, the listeners at the door heard another sound, a long-drawn gasp and groan, a series of gasps and groans, as of something fighting for breath, the unmistakable sound of snoring.

Emily grasped her cousin’s arm.  “Come, come away!” she whispered.  “I—­I believe I’m going to faint.”

Mrs. Barnes did not wait to be urged.  She put her arm about the young lady’s waist and together they tiptoed back to Thankful’s bedroom.  There, Mrs. Barnes’s first move was to light the lamp, the second to close and lock the door.  Then the pair sat down, one upon the bed and the other on a chair, and gazed into each other’s pale faces.

Emily was the first to speak.

“I—­I don’t believe it!” she declared, shakily.  “I know it isn’t real!”

“So—­so do I.”

“But—­but we heard it.  We both heard it.”

“Well—­well, I give in I—­I heard somethin’, somethin’ that. . . .  My soul!  Am I goin’ crazy to finish off this night with?”

“I don’t know.  If you are, then I must be going with you.  What can it be, Auntie?”

“I don’t know.”

“There is no other door to that room, is there?”

“No.”

“Then what can it be?”

“I don’t know.  Imogene’s in her own room; I looked in and saw her when
I took Jedediah up attic.  And Georgie’s in his with the door locked. 
And you and I are here.  There can’t be a livin’ soul in that room with
Solomon, not a livin’ soul.”

“But we heard—­we both heard—­”

“I know; I know.  And I heard somethin’ there before.  And so did Miss Timpson.  Emily, did—­did you hear him call—­call it ’Abner’?”

“Yes,” with a shudder.  “I heard.  Who could help hearing!”

“And Cap’n Abner was my uncle; and he used to live here. . . .  There!” with sudden determination.  “That’s enough of this.  We’ll both be stark, ravin’ distracted if we keep on this way.  My soul!  Hear that wind!  I said once that all the big things in my life had happened durin’ a storm and so they have.  Jedediah went away in a storm and he’s come back in a storm.  And now if uncle Abner’s comin’ back. . . .  There I go again!  Emily, do you feel like goin’ to bed?”

“To bed!  After that?  Auntie, how can you!”

“All right, then we’ll set up till mornin’.  Turn that lamp as high as you can and we’ll set by it and wait for daylight.  By that time we may have some of our sense back again and not behave like two feeble-minded fools.  Turn that wick up—­way up, Emily Howes!  And talk—­talk just as hard as you can—­about somethin’ or somebody that’s alive.”