A smile, half pitiful, half
self-scornful curved her lips as she remembered the rat-tat-tat
she had heard on that dismal night when she clung listening to the
fence, and wondered now if it had not been the bumping of this cot
sliding from step to step.
But no! the repeated stroke of a hammer is unmistakable. He had
played the carpenter that night as well as the mover, and with no
visible results. Mystery still reigned in the house for all the
charm and order she had brought into it; a mystery which deeply
interested her, and which she yet hoped to solve, notwithstanding
its remoteness from the real problem of her existence.
XV
THE PICTURE
NIGHT! and Deborah Scoville waiting anxiously for Reuther to
sleep, that she might brood undisturbed over a new and disturbing
event which for the whole day had shaken her out of her wonted
poise, and given, as it were, a new phase to her life in this
house.
Already had she stepped several times to her daughter's room and
looked in, only to meet Reuther's unquiet eye turned towards hers
in silent inquiry. Was her own uneasiness infectious? Was the
child determined to share her vigil? She would wait a little
longer this time and see.
Their rooms were over the parlour and thus as far removed as
possible from the judge's den. In her own, which was front, she
felt at perfect ease, and it was without any fear of disturbing
either him or Reuther that she finally raised her window and
allowed the cool wind to soothe her heated cheeks.
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