several barrels of paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony.

At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was
perfect and a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire,
lingered late in the west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew
down the shades and proceeded, in her usual methodical manner, to
light her lamp. She always filled and lit it with her own hands,
keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf in a closet.
As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual peaceful
aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their
mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening,
and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the
table and began to knit.

That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a
wild wind was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven
clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose once or twice and looked out of the
window; but of the view nothing was discernible save a tardy
light or two in the opposite windows. These lights at last went
out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their extinction,
began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she merely
flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her
head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took
out the kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden
matches into her pocket she proceeded, with increasing
precautions, to unlock her door, and a few moments later she was
feeling her way down the dark staircase, led by a glimmer of gas
from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom of the
stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter
darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more