and the wind was rising.

"I'll go through the house," said Mr. Reynolds. "There's likely
nothing worse the matter than some drunken mill-hand on a vacation
while the mills are under water. But I'd better look."

He left me, and I sat there alone in the darkness. I had a
presentiment of something wrong, but I tried to think it was only
discomfort and the cold. The water, driven in by the wind, swirled at
my feet. And something dark floated in and lodged on the step below. I
reached down and touched it. It was a dead kitten. I had never known a
dead cat to bring me anything but bad luck, and here was one washed in
at my very feet.

Mr. Reynolds came back soon, and reported the house quiet and in
order.

"But I found Peter shut up in one of the third-floor rooms," he said.
"Did you put him there?"

I had not, and said so; but as the dog went everywhere, and the door
might have blown shut, we did not attach much importance to that at
the time.

Well, the skiff was gone, and there was no use worrying about it until
morning. I went back to the sofa to keep warm, but I left my candle
lighted and my door open. I did not sleep: the dead cat was on my
mind, and, as if it were not bad enough to have it washed in at my
feet, about four in the morning Peter, prowling uneasily, discovered
it and brought it in and put it on my couch, wet and stiff, poor