Such a thing will seriously annoy one sometimes. The eyes of a portrait may take on a living look, and render one horribly nervous when alone at midnight. Those following eyes, so persistent in their stare, annoyed Floy, and gave her the same creepy chill down her back that she had felt when the mice scurried over the piano keys. She could not resist a sudden longing to escape from the room, and from the grim scrutiny of her pictured ancestors. Taking the lamp in her hand, she started out to explore the house. Hurrying along the draughty hall, and in and out of the musty old rooms familiar to her childhood, the girl tried to dispel the shadow that began to fall on her spirits like an ominous cloud. Presently, over the roar of the storm outside, her voice rang out in a loud, wild, terrified shriek thrice repeated--then awful silence. CHAPTER VII. AT THE DREAD HOUR OF MIDNIGHT. Half an hour passed by slowly. The storm was over. The lightning, thunder, and rain had ceased, and the moon was coming out from the black wrack of clouds where she had hidden her glory. Her silver light shone again upon the sleeping world, and flashed into the parlor window that Floy had opened before she left the room half an hour ago. In the sheen of the moonlight, the staring eyes of the portraits on the wall seemed to be watching eagerly for their descendant to reappear. The hall door opened softly, and Floy staggered across the threshold, bearing the lamp unsteadily in her small hand. What a change had come over the sparkling _riante_ face! She was pale to the lips--pale as a ghost, as the saying goes--and there was a strange expression in her blue eyes, as if they had looked upon something uncanny. With an unsteady step, as though she trembled in every limb, the lamp flaring dismally in her grasp, she dragged herself across the room to a long swinging mirror between the windows, and held the light up over her golden head, looking at herself carefully, as she whispered: “I wonder if my hair has turned white?” The words, coupled with her appalling shrieks of half an hour ago, proved two facts. First, that Floy had sustained a severe shock of some kind, since only sudden fright or grief is supposed to whiten the hair in a single hour; and secondly, that she was recovering from her alarm, as manifested by her anxiety over her personal appearance. The long mirror gave her back faithfully the beautiful form with the graceful swelling curves of dawning womanhood, and the lovely face lighted by clear blue eyes, and crowned by waves of crinkly gold above the frank white brow. No, her hair had not turned white, despite the untold horror that had shaken her soul to the center. Not even one silver thread shone among the gold. Floy heaved a long, bursting sigh of intense relief, set down the lamp, and dropped wearily into a chair near the window.