They could not belong to the wagoner's son.

He would be bringing his horse and cart.

The footsteps were light, too--light and hurried, and not to be associated with hobnailed boots.
Almost desperate at this cutting off of retreat, Tilda pulled Arthur Miles towards a wooden stairway, unrailed, painted over with Stockholm tar, built against the outside of the store, and leading to its upper chamber.
"Up! and quick!" she commanded, pushing him before her.

She followed panting, leaning against the wall for support, for 'Dolph was no light burden, and his weight taxed her hurt leg painfully.
The door of the loft stood ajar.

She staggered in after the boy, dropped the dog, and closed all but a chink, at which she posted herself, drawing quick breaths.
In the darkness behind her Arthur Miles listened.