Forest. John
looked in the place his wife had indicated, and there, sure enough, lay
the brown kid gloves. This evidence did seem conclusive. John shook his
grey head as he held the dainty gloves across his rough palm, and
presently said, "You have kept her too short, wife--girls wants their
bits of things." He paused and sighed heavily, and then added, "I'll go
and look for her."
"It's all your fault, John," broke out his wife as he rose to go. "You
as good as told her to do it."
"You ought to have given her some money, Eliza, and you've been nagging
at her and driven her out this cold night; if harm comes of it--" said
John as he went out.
"Fiddlesticks about harm; what harm can come to her, I should like to
know?" retorted his wife, without allowing him to complete his sentence.
Then the door closed and Eliza Forest was alone, with the ticking of the
eight-day clock to bear her company.
Slowly the hand of the clock travelled on. A clock is a weird
companion--above all, one that strikes the hour after a preliminary
groaning sound as this clock did. Mrs. Forest tried to occupy herself
with the stocking she was knitting, but she was uneasy and let her work
fall in her lap while she reflected to the accompaniment of that
metallic "Tick-tick" of the clock. "My mother always said that my temper
would get me down and worry me," she meditated; "and I believe it _will_
before it's done."
Ten o'clock struck--eleven o'clock, and Mrs.
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