It was in the corner of the room furthest from the windows and was shut
tight. A closet, probably, and all the closets she had inspected so
far had contained nothing but rubbish. However, Thankful was not in the
habit of doing things by halves, so, the feebly sputtering lantern held
in her left hand, she opened the door with the other and looked in. Then
she uttered an exclamation of joy.
It was not a closet behind that door, but another room. A small room
with but one little window, low down below the slope of the ceiling.
But this room was to some extent furnished. There was a bed in it, and a
rocking chair, and one or two pictures hanging crookedly upon the wall.
Also, and this was the really important thing, upon that bed was a
patchwork comforter.
Thankful made a dash for that comforter. She set the lantern down upon
the floor and snatched the gayly colored thing from the bed. And, as she
did so, she heard a groan.
There are always noises in an empty house, especially an old house.
Creaks and cracks and rustlings mysterious and unexplainable. When the
wind blows these noises are reenforced by a hundred others. In this
particular house on this particular night there were noises enough,
goodness knows. Howls and rattles and moans and shrieks. Every shutter
and every shingle seemed to be loose and complaining of the fact. As for
groans--old hinges groan when the wind blows and so do rickety gutters
and water pipes. But this groan, or so it seemed to Mrs.
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