In answer to her request, the old woman lighted a candle, and Babette
followed her upstairs into a small, low chamber. There was no
superfluous furniture in it, but the little bed looked clean and
inviting, and the curtains that hung in front of the tiny window were
made of light, fresh-looking chintz. Facing the bed was a door, leading
apparently into another room. Babette wondered if it was the one her
friend the pedlar was to occupy, but she was not long left in doubt. The
old woman wished her good-night and left her, and Babette, after hushing
her boy to sleep again, had just sunk wearily into the one chair the
room boasted, when she heard a slow, heavy step ascending, and knew the
pedlar was coming to bed. He shut the outer door behind him, and began
arranging his pack.

Babette could hear the pedlar moving backwards and forwards with
uncertain, tired footsteps. There was no sound below, even the wind was
hushed. She drew aside the curtains and looked out, and saw that the
snow had ceased to fall, and lay thick and white on the ground.

Then there came a sudden presentiment upon her. A sense of danger, vague
and undefined, seemed to surround her. It was all the more terrible on
account of its vagueness. She did not know what she feared, yet the
terror of something horrible was strong upon her.

She slipped off her boots, and stole gently up to the door that divided
her room from the pedlar's.

"Sir," she whispered, "you are very, very tired, and will sleep heavily.
I am so anxious, I don't know why; but forgive me and do trust me. Push
your pocket-book that contains your money under the door. See--it does