The attic was too long, the light too near the other end, and the cabin
stood much too far back from the road. He could see nothing although
he climbed the fence and walked back opposite the window. He knew Mrs.
Comstock was probably awake, and that she sometimes went to the swamp
behind her home at night. At times a cry went up from that locality that
paralyzed any one near, or sent them fleeing as if for life. He did not
care to cross behind the cabin. He returned to the road, passed, and
again climbed the fence. Opposite the west window he could see Elnora.
She sat before a small table reading from a book between two candles.
Her hair fell in a bright sheen around her, and with one hand she
lightly shook, and tossed it as she studied. The man stood out in the
night and watched.

For a long time a leaf turned at intervals and the hair-drying went on.
The man drew nearer. The picture grew more beautiful as he approached.
He could not see so well as he desired, for the screen was of white
mosquito netting, and it angered him. He cautiously crept closer. The
elevation shut off his view. Then he remembered the large willow tree
shading the well and branching across the window fit the west end of
the cabin. From childhood Elnora had stepped from the sill to a limb and
slid down the slanting trunk of the tree. He reached it and noiselessly
swung himself up. Three steps out on the big limb the man shuddered. He
was within a few feet of the girl.

He could see the throb of her breast under its thin covering and smell
the fragrance of the tossing hair. He could see the narrow bed with its
pieced calico cover, the whitewashed walls with gay lithographs, and
every crevice stuck full of twigs with dangling cocoons. There were pegs
for the few clothes, the old chest, the little table, the two chairs,