My grandmother was not uneasy, for he had told her he would be late, and she had mentioned it to the servants, and told them they need not sit up.

So there she was, late at night, alone, sewing most likely--ah girls, I wish I could show you some of her sewing--in her little parlour.

She was not the least nervous, yet it was a little 'eerie' perhaps, sitting up there alone so late, listening for her husband's whistle--he always whistled when he was late, so that she might be _sure_ it was he, when she went down to open the door at his knock--and more than once she looked at the clock and wished he would come.

Suddenly a step outside the room, coming up the stair, made her start.

She had hardly time to wonder confusedly if it could be my grandfather, knowing all the time it could _not_ be he--the doors were all supposed to be locked and barred, and could only be opened from the inside--when the door was flung open and some one looked in.