It was
far away in the upper reaches of the building, overhead, remote, a
little stealthy. Like the ominous murmur of a muffled drum, it had
approach in it. It was coming nearer and nearer. It was significant
and threatening.
For the first time that evening the ticking of the clock was also
audible. But the new sound, though somewhat in league with the
ticking, and equally remorseless, did not come from the clock. It was
a human sound, the most awful known to childhood. It was footsteps on
the stairs!
Both the children and the story-teller heard it, but with different
results. The latter stirred and looked about him, as though new hope
and strength had come to him. The former, led by Tim and Judy, broke
simultaneously into anxious speech. Maria, having slept profoundly
since the first mention of the mouse in its cosy pocket, gave no sign
at all.
"Oh, quick! quick! What did the squirrel whisper in his good right
ear? What was it? DO hurry, please!"
"It whispered two simple words, each of one syllable," continued the
reanimated figure, his voice lowered and impressive. "It said--_the
sea_!"
The announcement made by the squirrel was so entirely unexpected that
the surprise of it buried all memory of the disagreeable sound.
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