a bed;
and next that somebody, or something, lay on the bed.

I listened again. There was no sound in the room; no heart beating but
my own. I reached out a hand to pull up the blind, and drew it back
again. I dared not.

The daylight grew minute by minute on the dull oblong of the blind, and
minute by minute that horrible thing on the bed took something of
distinctness.

The strain beat me at last. I fetched a loud yell to give myself
courage, and, reaching for the cord, pulled up the blind as fast as it
would go.

The face on the pillow was that of an old man--a face waxen and
peaceful, with quiet lines about the mouth and eyes, and long lines of
grey hair falling back from the temples. The body was turned a little
on one side, and one hand lay outside the bedclothes in a very natural
manner. But there were two big dark stains on the pillow and coverlet.

Then I knew I was face to face with the real householder, and it flashed
on me that I had been indiscreet in taking service as his butler, and
that I knew the face his ex-butler wore.

And, being by this time awake to the responsibilities of the post, I
quitted it three steps at a time, not once looking behind me.
Outside the house the storm had died down, and white daylight was
gleaming over the sodden moors. But my bones were cold, and I ran
faster and faster.

THE DISENCHANTMENT OF 'LIZABETH.

"So you reckon I've got to die?"

The room was mean, but not without distinction. The meanness lay in
lime-washed walls, scant fittings, and uncovered boards; the distinction
came of ample proportions and something of durability in the furniture.
Rooms, like human faces, reflect their histories; and that generation
after generation of the same family had here struggled to birth or death
was written in this chamber unmistakably. The candle-light, twinkling
on the face of a dark wardrobe near the door, lit up its rough
inscription, "S.T. and M.T., MDCLXVII"; the straight-backed oaken chairs
might well claim an equal age; and the bed in the corner was a spacious
four-poster, pillared in smooth mahogany and curtained in faded green
damask.

In the shadow of this bed lay the man who had spoken. A single candle
stood on a tall chest at his left hand, and its ray, filtering through
the thin green curtain, emphasised the hue of death on his face.
The features were pinched, and very old. His tone held neither
complaint nor passion: it was matter-of-fact