The little room was almost cheerful.

There were no sounds except those from without, the neigh of George Washington from his stall, the cackle of the hens, the hungry grunts of Patrick Henry, the pig, in his sty beside the kitchen.
Thankful looked and listened.

Then she made a careful examination of the room, but found nothing mysterious or out of the ordinary.

And yet there was a mystery there.

She had long since decided that her own experience in that room had been imagination, but now that conviction was shaken.
Miss Timpson must have heard something; she HAD heard something which frightened her into leaving the boarding-house she professed to like so well.