the floor and snatched the gayly colored thing from the bed. And, as she
did so, she heard a groan.

There are always noises in an empty house, especially an old house.
Creaks and cracks and rustlings mysterious and unexplainable. When the
wind blows these noises are reenforced by a hundred others. In this
particular house on this particular night there were noises enough,
goodness knows. Howls and rattles and moans and shrieks. Every shutter
and every shingle seemed to be loose and complaining of the fact. As for
groans--old hinges groan when the wind blows and so do rickety gutters
and water pipes. But this groan, or so it seemed to Mrs. Barnes, had a
different and distinct quality of its own. It sounded--yes, it sounded
human.

Thankful dropped the patchwork comforter.

"Who's that?" she asked, sharply.

There was no answer. No sounds except those of the storm. Thankful
picked up the comforter.

"Humph!" she said aloud--talking to herself was a habit developed during
the years of housekeeping for deaf old Mrs. Pearson. "Humph! I must be
gettin' nerves, I guess."

She began folding the old quilt in order to make it easier to carry
downstairs. And then she heard another groan, or sigh, or combination
of both. It sounded, not outside the window or outside the house, but in
that very room.