s just the natural reluctance of a
shy nature to face a new and uncongenial situation. And yet--and
yet--and yet, try as she would, she could not shake off the impression
that, beyond it all, there loomed something a hidden inner sense made
her hesitate to approach.

Just that moment, a dim, untraceable association of ideas drew her back
until she was face-to-face with a long-forgotten incident in her
very-little girlhood. Once upon a time, there had been a moment when she
had experienced much the same sort of feeling she had now--the feeling
of wanting to cry out and run away. As a matter of fact, she _had_ cried
out and run away. Why, and from what? As it came back to her, not from
anything altogether terrible. On the contrary, something rather
alluring, but so unfamiliar that she had shrunk back from it,
protesting, resisting. What was it? Claire suddenly broke into a
smothered little laugh and covered her face with her hands, before the
vision of herself, squawking madly, like a startled chicken, and running
away from "big" handsome, twelve-year-old Bobby Van Brandt, who had just
announced to the world at large, that "he liked Claire Lang a lot, 'n'
she was his best girl, 'n' he was goin' to kiss her." She had been
mortally frightened, had screamed, and run away, but (so unaccountable
is the heart of woman) she had never liked Bobby quite so well after
that, because he had shown the white feather and hadn't carried out his
purpose, in spite of her.

But if she should scream and run away now, there would be none to
pursue. Her foolish outburst would disturb no one. She could cry and
cry, and run and run, and there would be no big Bobby Van Brandt, or any
one else to hear and follow.

An actual echo of the cries she had not uttered seemed to mock her
foolish musing. She paused and listened. Again and again came the
muffled sounds, and, at last, so distinct they seemed, she went to her
door, unlatched it, and stood, listening, on the threshold.

From Martha's room rose a deep rumble, as of a distant murmurous sea.

"Mr. Slawson. He's awake. He must have heard the crying, too. O, it's
begun again! How awful! Martha, what is it, O, what is it?" for Mrs.
Slawson had appeared in her own doorway, and was standing, night-robed
and ghostly, listening attentively to the intermittent signs of
distress.

"It's that bloomin' Dutchman, Langbein, acrost the hall. Every time he
goes on a toot, he comes back an' wallops his wi