storm, and Zebbie called the hounds in and secured the door. The sparks
began to fly up the chimney. Jerrine lay on a bearskin before the
fire, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I sat on the old blue "settle" at one
side. Gavotte lay on the other side of the fire on the floor, his hands
under his head. Zebbie got out his beloved old fiddle, tuned up, and
began playing. Outside the storm was raging, growing worse all the
time. Zebbie played and played. The worse the tumult, the harder the
storm, the harder he played. I remember I was holding my breath,
expecting the house to be blown away every moment, and Zebbie was
playing what he called "Bonaparte's Retreat." It all seemed to flash
before me--I could see those poor, suffering soldiers staggering along
in the snow, sacrifices to one man's unholy ambition. I verily believe
we were all bewitched. I shouldn't have been surprised to have seen
witches and gnomes come tumbling down the chimney or flying in at the
door, riding on the crest of the storm. I glanced at Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy. She sat with her chin in her hand, gazing with unseeing
eyes into the fire. Zebbie seemed possessed; he couldn't tire.

It seemed like hours had passed and the tumult had not diminished. I
felt like shrieking, but I gathered Jerrine up into my arms and carried
her in to bed. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came with us. She touched my elbow
and said, "Child, don't look toward the window, the banshees are out
to-night." We knelt together beside the bed and said our beads; then,
without undressing save pulling off our shoes, we crawled under our
blankets and lay on the sweet, clean pine. We were both perfectly worn
out, but we could not sleep. There seemed to be hundreds of different
noises of the storm, for there are so many cañons, so many crooks and
turns, and the great forest too. The wind was shrieking, howling, and
roaring all at once. A deep boom announced the fall of some giant of
the forest. I finally dozed off even in that terrible din, but Zebbie