"Goodness! That's two discoveries!"

"But what _did_ it whisper?"

In the hush that followed, a coal was heard falling softly into the
grate; the night-wind moaned against the outside walls; Judy scraped
her stockinged foot slowly along the iron fender, making a faint
twanging sound. Breathing was distinctly audible. For several moments
the room was still as death. The figure, smothered beneath the clotted
mass of children, heaved a sigh. But no one broke the pause. It was
too precious and wonderful to break at once. All waited breathlessly,
like birds poised in mid-air before they strike ... until a new sound
stole faintly upon the listening silence, a faint and very distant
sound, barely audible as yet, but of unmistakable character. It was
far away in the upper reaches of the building, overhead, remote, a
little stealthy. Like the ominous murmur of a muffled drum, it had
approach in it. It was coming nearer and nearer. It was significant
and threatening.

For the first time that evening the ticking of the clock was also
audible. But the new sound, though somewhat in league with the
ticking, and equally remorseless, did not come from the clock. It was
a human sound, the most awful known to childhood. It was footsteps on
the stairs!

Both the children and the story-teller heard it, but with different
results. The latter stirred and looked about him, as though new hope
and strength had come to him. The former, led by Tim and Judy, broke
simultaneously into anxious speech. Maria, having slept profoundly