beat him to it an' 'fo' Gawd he gonter be a squirmin' in agony this time termorrow. I'll grin' it fine an' git some in that there speshul batter braid what his maw makes so keerful fer him 'thout enough grease in it ter ile a flea's laig."
The old woman laughed gleefully as she carefully picked up the bits of glass that Philip had saved to use for scraping the old mahogany and put it in her capacious pocket.
Suddenly the tallow candle flared up and went out. For a moment she stood terrified. The dark always terrified her, but the stars were shining through the skylight and dimly lighted the attic. She fumbled in her pocket among the bits of broken glass and produced a box of matches.
"He's sho' ter have a candle. I seen one over here," she muttered, striking a match and moving towards the highboy. The match went out just as she reached the highboy, and then she struck another and held it aloft.
From the impenetrable gloom the face of the portrait seemed to spring out at her—the face of the man with his throat wrapped up—he whom she had always thought to be the one who had hanged himself in the attic. Frozen with terror, she backed away from the highboy. The
