'Lizabeth had known this kitchen for a score of years now; nevertheless, to-night it was unfamiliar, with emptier corners and wider intervals of bare floor.

She laid down the loaded pistol, raked the logs together, and set the kettle on the flame.
She would take comfort in a dish of tea.
There was company in the singing of the kettle, the hiss of its overflow on the embers, and the rattle with which she set out cup, saucer, and teapot.

She was bending over the hearth to lift the kettle, when a sound at the door caused her to start up and listen.
The latch had been rattled: not by the wind, for the December night without was misty and still.

There was somebody on the other side of the door; and, as she turned, she saw the latch lowered back into its place.
With her eyes fastened on this latch, she set down the kettle softly and reached out for her pistol.

For a moment or two there was silence.
Then someone tapped gently.
The tapping went on for half a minute; then followed silence again.
'Lizabeth stole across the kitchen, pistol in hand, laid her ear against the board, and listened.
Yes, assuredly there was someone outside.