t an'
it's drivin' 'im mad. He drinks t' day through, an' in a bit there'll
be nought for us but t' work'us, for I can't keep 'im i' whiskey; an'
whativver's goin' to come o' our poor little Lucy I don't know. I've
been lookin' at her as she lay there, Miss 'Olden, so sweet an' pretty,
like a little angel, an' I a'most asked the Lord to take 'er out of all
t' trouble, but I couldn't bide to lose 'er."

The overwrought woman buried her face in her apron and sobbed
convulsively--deep-drawn, quiet sobs which told of her soul's agony. A
solitary candle was burning upon the dressing-table, and the room
looked eerie in the half darkness. Outside the storm was at its
height, and in the stillness which neither of us broke I heard it
shriek with the shrillness which one associates with spirits in torment.

But it was the savage thrust of the wind that frightened me most, and
the heavy and repeated thuds which struck the end of the house like the
battering blows of a heavy ram. It is no exaggeration to say that the
house rocked, and I began to fear lest it should collapse. I
remembered what a shaky, decrepit structure it was, and I turned to
Martha to see if she shared my alarm.

She caught the question in my eyes: "I think it's safe enough," she
said; "it allus rocks a bit in a 'igh wind. I've got while I take no
notice of it."

Poor woman! There was a storm within her breast which dwarfed the
tempest outside into insignificance; but I held my breath again and
again, and tried in vain to stay the tumultuous beatings of my heart as
the mad wind rained blow after blow upon the quivering walls with a
persistency and ever growing fury which seemed to make disaster
inevitable.

By and by I could stand it no longer. "Are you sure the house is safe,
Martha?" I asked. "Listen to the wind now; it makes me shudder to hear
it, and the wall on yonder side absolutely heaves. Had we not better
wrap Lucy up well, and take her downstairs?"

"You aren't used to it, Miss 'Olden, an' it's gettin' on your nerves.
You needn't fear. I've seen it like this oft enough afore. But you
ought to be gettin' back 'ome, for it's hardly a fit night for you to
be out."

I was reluctant to leave, and yet I saw that I was likely to do more
harm than good if I remained, so I said good-night and left her; but at
the foot of the narrow staircase I found my way blocked and the door
barred. Angry voices came from within the room, and my knocks w