ac that Harvey could
claim as his own. He stared gloomily at the floor for a long time,
thinking. Of what use were they to him now? And where was he to put
them in case he claimed them?

"I guess you'd better store everything," he said, dejectedly.
"They--they all go together."

"The--your trunk, sir; how about that?"

"If you think you've got room for it, I----"

"Sure we have."

"Take it, too. I'm going to pack what clothes I need in a suitcase. So
much easier to carry than a trunk." He was unconsciously funny, and
did not understand the well-meant guffaw of the foreman.

It was a dreary, desolate night that he spent in the topsy-turvy
cottage. He was quite alone except for the queer shapes and shadows
that haunted him. When he was downstairs he could hear strange
whisperings above; when he was upstairs the mutterings were below.
Things stirred and creaked that had never shown signs of animation
before. The coals in the fireplace spat with a malignant fury, as if
blown upon by evil spirits lurking in the chimney until he went to bed
so that they might come forth to revel in the gloom. The howl of the
wind had a different note, a wail that seemed to come from a child in
pain; forbidding sounds came up from the empty cellar; always there
was something that stood directly behind him, ready to lay on a
ghostly hand. He crouched in the chair, feeling never so small, never
so impotent as now. The chair was partially wrapped for crating. Every
time he moved there was a crackle of paper that sounded like the
rattle of thunder before the final ear-splitting crash. As still as a
mouse he sat and listened for new sounds, more sinister than those
that had gone before; and, like the mouse, he jumped with each
recurring sound.

Towering crates seemed on the verge of toppling over upon him, boxes
and barrels appeared to draw closer together to present a barrier
against any means of escape; cords and ropes wriggled with life as he
stared at them, serpentine things that kept on creeping toward him,
never away.

Oh, for the sound of Phoebe's voice!

"Quoth the raven, nevermore!" That sombre sentence haunted him. He
tried to close his ears against it, but to no purpose. It crept up
from some inward lurking place in his being, crooning a hundred
cadences in spite of all that he could do to change the order of his
thoughts.

Far in the night he dashed fearfully up to his dismantled bedroom, a
flickering candle in his hand.