A louder roll of thunder punctuated her words.

“There!” said Lizzie.  “They’ll be going off again to-night.”  She took an uncertain step toward the French windows.

“Humph!” said Miss Cornelia, “I hope it will be a dry summer.”  Her hands tightened on each other.  Darkness—­darkness inside this house of whispers to match with the darkness outside!  She forced herself to speak in a normal voice.

“Ask Billy to bring some candles, Lizzie—­and have them ready.”

Lizzie had been staring fixedly at the French windows.  At Miss Cornelia’s command she gave a little jump of terror and moved closer to her mistress.

“You’re not going to ask me to go out in that hall alone?” she said in a hurt voice.

It was too much.  Miss Cornelia found vent for her feelings in crisp exasperation.

“What’s the matter with you anyhow, Lizzie Allen?”

The nervousness in her own tones infected Lizzie’s.  She shivered frankly.

“Oh, Miss Neily—­Miss Neily!” she pleaded.  “I don’t like it!  I want to go back to the city!”

Miss Cornelia braced herself.  “I have rented this house for four months and I am going to stay,” she said firmly.  Her eyes sought Lizzie’s, striving to pour some of her own inflexible courage into the latter’s quaking form.  But Lizzie would not look at her.  Suddenly she started and gave a low scream;

“There’s somebody on the terrace!” she breathed in a ghastly whisper, clutching at Miss Cornelia’s arm.

For a second Miss Cornelia sat frozen.  Then, “Don’t do that!” she said sharply.  “What nonsense!” but she, looked over her shoulder as she said it and Lizzie saw the look.  Both waited, in pulsing stillness—­one second—­two.

“I guess it was the wind,” said Lizzie at last, relieved, her grip on Miss Cornelia relaxing.  She began to look a trifle ashamed of herself and Miss Cornelia seized the opportunity.

“You were born on a brick pavement,” she said crushingly.  “You get nervous out here at night whenever a cricket begins to sing—­or scrape his legs—­or whatever it is they do!”

Lizzie bowed before the blast of her mistress’s scorn and began to move gingerly toward the alcove door.  But obviously she was not entirely convinced.

“Oh, it’s more than that, Miss Neily,” she mumbled.  “I—­”

Miss Cornelia turned to her fiercely.  If Lizzie was going to behave like this, they might as well have it out now between them—­before Dale came home.

“What did you really see last night?” she said in a minatory voice.

The instant relief on Lizzie’s face was ludicrous; she so obviously preferred discussing any subject at any length to braving the dangers of the other part of the house unaccompanied.

“I was standing right there at the top of that there staircase,” she began, gesticulating toward the alcove stairs in the manner of one who embarks upon the narration of an epic.  “Standing there with your switch in my hand, Miss Neily—­and then I looked down and,” her voice dropped, “I saw a gleaming eye!  It looked at me and winked!  I tell you this house is haunted!”