Litchfield enquirer., 1876-09-21
IITCHFIELD CONN., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER s2, 1876

vanished for the ps esent, at least from it's late close proxiIs.ty to the window.
 got up at last, still chattering to my Unconscious child, and moved slowly to- ward the door, even pausing for an in stant at the table, partly to gather strength to proceed, as my limbs were tottering beneath me, partly because dreaded lest the lurker without might still be marking my. movements. had scarcely strength left to turn the handle of the door, but once on the other side of it, I rushed across the hall and gained the kitchen, where found my two do- mestics seated at their tea. briefly told them of the fright had got and was not much treasured on finding that both were, if possible, greater towards than I was myself.
 The sound of a whistle at no great distance from the cottage reused me to the necessity of instantly making every place as secure as possible. Accom- panied by the two trembling servants, and with baby in my arms. began my tour of inspection. Atlast every bolt was drawn, every shutter closed, and nothing more remained to be done. found, on look ing at the clock, that it was little past five. so that long evening was before me.
 Not sound was to be heard; nothing fresh occurred to alarm us in the least, and at last I grew almost ashamed of the panic had given way to, merely . from having seen man glance through the window. Very probably he was some strolling vagrant who had been attracted by the bright light of the fire to look in, without intention of doing us any harm.
 < So l reasoned with myself, and so I tried to reassure my servants. Under any circumstances I was glad to feel that we were safely shut up for the night, and determined to go soon to my room, where felt less lonely than in the empty dressing-room.
 Had there not been the chance of Ar- thur returning; I would have proposed that the servants should sleep in a bed there happened to be in this dress ing-room; but as they assured me they were not at all afraid, now that nothing more had been heard of the man, and I knew it would be great nuisance to Arthur, if he did return, concluded that it was wiser to let them sleep in their own room, though it was at some distance from mine.
 a went to my room at about half-past nine, and proceeded to undress. after which, put on my white flannel dressing gown, placed my candles behind me, and seating myself in front of the fire began to read.
 In spite of all my assurances to n.y. self and my servants, I felt strangely nervous and restless. My book was very interesting one, but it failed to ob- literate from my mind the horrible re- memberance of the face at the window. Perhaps he was there<still-perhaps he was watching for Arthur's return to way lay and murder him. All sorts of wild visions presented themselves to my mind. Once baby moved slightly, and it made me start nearly to my feet with terror. Twas thoroughly upset, and the only thing that consoled me was, thatI had begged Arthur not to return; he was no doubt, safely at the barracks,' little dreaming of my state of mind. It was showing heavily still. knew it by the dropping that came steadily down the chimney. The atmosphere seemed to choke me somehow. And ever and anon found myself listening intently.
 The hall clock struck eleven, every stroke vibrating through me. Still saS on, my fire growing dim, and myself feel ing cramped, cold, and almost immova- ble. What was so afraid of ? I asked myself 8. hundred times. I could not tell; it was vague shadowy terror that seemed to be chaining me down. I had heard of peoples hair turning white in a night from fear. Surely mine would be as snowy as the ground without if had to spend the whole night thus. Oh, for the sound of Arthur's voice? Perhaps should never hear it again-perhaps he would never know what a night I had spent, as either he or might be cmur- dered before morning. Half-past eleven only thirty minutes since the clock struck. In eight hours our servant from the barracks would come, evenif Arthur had settled not to return till morning. Eight hours of this!
 Aquarter from twelve. By mighty effort l forced myself to get up. Glanc- ing at the glass.my own ghostly reflection terrified me. I laid my watch under my pillow. and was in the act of lying down beside baby-not to sleep. as till two o'clock l should hope for Arthur-whsn a sound. awful. wild. unearthly, broke the stiffness of the dark December night. It was scream from woman's voice in dire distress; another followed, and it came from somewhere in the house.
 Not a moment did hesitate. Spring. ing out of bed, and putting on only my slippers-happily having kept on my dressing g-gown-I seized my child, paus- ing only to snatch up her little shawl that lay beside her on the bed. I un- barred my shutter, opened the window, and the next moment was on the veranda. Itaeeded not third wild shriek to impel me to speed beyond what had ever dreamed of as possible.
 L In second or two was beyond the gate, flying for life for my own and an- other existence, dearer far, in my arms, clasped tightly to me-dying through the lanes, past the dreadful hedges, on, stumbling now and then, but recovering myself only to resume my race for life with greater desperation. Death was surely behind us. If the pale, piercing face of the outside watcher overlook me now, what would be my fate?
 God was merciful indeed to me, and gayem me the power to proceed in my aw- ful extremity. .ss1r a '