"Pendrilly an' me has done put our pins in close to the bottom," Cliantha explained deprecatingly. "Hit wouldn't do any good to have Andy an' Jeff come trompin' in here--though I shore would love to see either or both of 'em this minute," she concluded forlornly, as they set the door ajar and the long slanting lines of rain began to drive obliquely in at the opening. "Push the candle back whar the draught won't git a fair chance at it," quavered Pendrilla. "We're obliged to have the do' open, or what comes cain't git in. An' we mustn't ne'er a one of us say a word from now on, or hit'll break the charm." Judith moved the candle and bent to thrust her pin in, close to the top where the melting wax might soon free it, concentrating all her soul in a passionate cry that Creed should come to her or send her some sign. Then she crouched on the floor next to Pendrilla and nearest to the door, and the three waited with pale faces. The wavering light of the candle, shaken by gusts which brought puffs of mist in with them, projected huge, grotesque shadows of the three heads, and set them dancing upon the walls. The hound-pup raised his head, cocked his ears dubiously, and whined under his breath. "What's that?" gasped Cliantha. "Didn't you-all hear somethin'?" Judith was staring at the candle flame and made no reply. Her big dark eyes had the look of one self-hypnotised. "Oh, Lordy! Ye ortn't to talk at a dumb supper--but I thort I hearn somebody walkin' out thar in the rain!" chattered Pendrilla. The old house creaked and groaned in the rising autumn storm, as old houses do. The rain drummed on the roof like fingers tapping. The wind stripped dry leaves from the bough, or scooped them up out of the hollows where they lay, and carried them across the window, or drove them along the porch, in a gliding, whispering flight that was infinitely eerie. In their terror the girls looked to Judith. They saw that she was not with them. Her gaze was on the pin in the candle. Back over her heart swept the sweetness of her first meeting with Creed. She could see him stand talking to her, the lifted face, the blue eyes--should she ever see them again? Then suddenly the flame twisted and bent, the tallow melted swiftly on one side, and Judith's pin fell to the floor. "Hit's a-comin'!" hissed Cliantha frantically. "Oh, Lord! I wish 't we hadn't--" Pendrilla moaned. The dog uttered a protesting sound between a growl and a yelp. He raised on his forelegs, and the hair of his head and neck bristled. Outside, a heavy stumbling step came up the walk. It halted at the half-open door. That door was flung back, and in the square of dripping darkness stood Creed Bonbright, his face death white, his eyes wide and fixed, the rain gemming his uncovered yellow hair.