ise and threatening--something horribly
unnatural.

The window of the upstairs room was evidently open, and now and again
the door creaked faintly. When that happened Stott gripped the handrail,
and grew damp and hot. He looked always at the shadows under the door.
If it crawled ...

The nurse stood at the door of the sitting-room while Stott ate, and
presently Mrs. Reade came grunting and panting up the brick path.

"I'm going out, now," said Stott resolutely, and he rose to his feet,
though his meal was barely finished.

"You'll be back before Mrs. Reade goes?" asked the nurse, and passed a
hand over her tired eyes. "She'll be here till ten o'clock. I'm going to
lie down."

"I'll be back by ten," Stott assured her as he went out.

He did come back at ten o'clock, but he was stupidly drunk.

IV

The Stotts' cottage was no place to live in during the next few days,
but the nurse made one stipulation: Mr. Stott must come home to sleep.
He slept on an improvised bed in the sitting-room, and during the night
the nurse came down many times and listened to the sound of his snores.
She would put her ear against the door, and rest her nerves with the
thought of human companionship. Sometimes she opened the door quietly
and watched him as he slept. Except at night, when he was rarely quite
sober, Stott only visited his cottage once a day, at lunch time; from
seven in the morning till ten at night he remained in Ailesworth save
for this one call of inquiry.

It was such a still house. Ellen Mary only spoke when speech was
absolutely required, and then her words were the fewest possible, and
were spoken in a whisper. The child made no sound of any kind. Even Mrs.
Reade tried to subdue her stertorous breathing, to move with less
ponderous quakings. The neighbours told her she looked thinner.

Little wonder that during the long night vigil the nurse, moving
silently between the two upstairs rooms, should pause on the landing and
lean over the handrail; little wonder that she should give a long sigh
of relief when she heard the music of Stott's snore ascend from the
sitting-room.

O'Connell called twice every day during the first week, not because it
was necessary for him to visit his two patients, but because the infant
fascinated him. He would wait for it to open its eyes, and then he
would get up and leave the room hurriedly. Always he intended to return
the infant's stare, but when the opportunity was given to hi