"I found her snivelling about you," John said. "She wanted me to go out and look for you with a lantern! After a day's work!" "Things," Miriam murmured, "might have got hold of her." "I shouldn't have minded moor things. Oh, these stained knives! John, did she really cry?" "Nearly, I did." "Not she!" "I did, Helen. I thought the dark would come, and you'd be lost perhaps, out on the moor--O-oh!" "I think I'd like it--wrapped up in the night." "But the noises would send you mad. Your eyes are all red. Have you been crying too?" "It's the wind. Here's the rain coming. And where's my hair?" She smoothed it back and took off her muddy shoes before she sat down in the armchair and looked about her. "Isn't it as if somebody were dead?" she asked. "There are more shadows." "I'll turn up the lamp," John said. The tinkle of Helen's cup and saucer had the clearness of a bell in the quiet room, and she moved more stealthily. Miriam paused as she spread butter on the toast. "This house is full of dead people," she whispered. "If you begin to think about them--John, you're not going, are you?" "Only to draw the curtains. Yes, here's the rain." "And soon Notya will be on the sea," Helen said, listening to the sounds of storm. "And I hope," Miriam added on a rich burst of laughter, "that Uncle Alfred will be sea-sick. Oh, wouldn't he look queer!" She flourished the knife. "Can't we be merry when we have the chance? Now that she's gone, why should the house still feel full of her? It isn't fair!" "You're dripping butter on the floor," Helen said. "Make your old toast yourself, then!" "It's not only Notya," Helen went on, as she picked up the knife. "It's the Pinderwells and their thoughts, and the people who lived here before them. Their thoughts are in the walls and they come out when the house is quiet." "Then let us make a noise!" Miriam cried. "Tomorrow's Saturday, and Daniel will come up. Shall we ask him to stay? It would make more live people in the house." "If he stays, I'm not going to have Rupert in my room again. He talks in his sleep." "It's better than snoring," Helen said. "Awful to marry a man who snores," Miriam remarked. "Uncle Alfred does. I heard him." "You're not thinking of marrying him?" John asked. "No. I don't like the little man," she said incisively. "He gave me his card as though he'd met me in a train. In case we needed him! I've thrown it into Mrs. Pinderwell's desk." She looked frowningly at the fire. "But he liked me," she said, throwing up her head and defying the silent criticism of the company. "Yes, he did, but I hadn't enough time." "That's better than too much," Helen said shrewdly, and stretched her stockinged feet to the bars. "Thank you for the tea, and now let us wash up." "You're scorching," Miriam said, and no one moved. The lamplight had driven the shadows further back, and the room was the more peaceful for the cry of the wind and the hissing of the rain.