hit the house, or anything!

The conjunction of terrors was too much for Missy to bear. Finally
she crept out of bed and to the door. An unmistakable moan issued
from Aunt Isabel's room. And then she saw Uncle Charlie, in bath-
robe and pajamas, coming down the hall from the bathroom. He was
carrying a hot-water bottle.

"Why, what's the matter, Missy?" he asked her. "The storm frighten
you?"

Missy nodded; she couldn't voice those other horrible fears which
were tormenting her.

"Well, the worst is over now," he said reassuringly. "Run back to
bed. Your aunt's sick again--I've just been filling the hot-water
bottle for her."

"Is she--very sick?" asked Missy tremulously.

"Pretty sick," answered Uncle Charlie. "But there's nothing you can
do. Jump back into bed."

So Missy crept back, and listened to the gradual steadying down of
the rain. She was almost sorry, now, that the whirlwind of frantic
elements had subsided; that had been a sort of terrible complement
to the whirlwind of anguish within herself.

She lay there tense, strangling a desperate impulse to sob. La Beale
Isoud had died of love--and now Aunt Isabel was already sickening.