He must be like greased lightning." He was pounding vigorously on the roughly boarded ceiling when the sharp voice of the old woman, raised in command, caused him to lower the stool and turn upon her with gleaming, triumphant eyes.

The look he saw in her face was sufficient to check his enterprise for the moment.

He dropped the stool and started toward her, his arms extended to catch her swaying form.

The look of the dying was in her eyes; she seemed to be crumpling before him.
He reached her in time, his strong arms grasping the frail, bent figure as it sank to the floor.

As he lifted her bodily from her feet, intent upon carrying her to the open air, her bony fingers sank into his arm with the grip of death, and--could he believe his ears!--a low, mocking laugh came from her lips.
Down where the pebbly house-yard merged into the mossy banks, Mr.Hobbs sat tight, still staring with gloomy eyes at the dark little hut up the glen.