Maggie nodded her head.
"I'll go and see," she said.
She went into the hall and stood again listening.

Then she called, "Father! Father!" but there was no answer.

She had never in all her life been frightened by anything and she was not frightened now; nevertheless, as she went up the stairs, she looked behind her to see whether any one followed her.
She called again "Father!" then went to his door, pushed it open, and looked in.

The room was cold with a faint scent of tallow candle and damp.
In the twilight she saw her father's body lying like a shadow stretched right across the floor, with the grey dirty fingers of one hand clenched.
After that events followed swiftly.

Maggie herself had no time nor opportunity for any personal emotion save a dumb kind of wonder that she did not feel more.