The ticking of the big clock there seemed
very loud, almost accusing, and Pepsy's heart seemed to keep time with
it as it thumped in her little breast. How different the familiar
kitchen seemed, deserted and in darkness! The two stove lids were
laid a little off their places to check the banked fire, leaving two
bright crescent lines like a pair of eyes staring up at her. This light,
reflected in one of the milk pails standing inverted on a high shelf,
made a sort of ghostly mirror in which Pepsy saw herself better than
in that crinkly, outlandish mirror in her little room.
For a moment she was afraid to move lest she make a noise, and so
she paused, almost terrified, looking at her own homely little face,
on the most fateful night of her life. Then she tiptoed out through
the pantry where the familiar smell of fresh butter reassured her. It
seemed companionable, in the strange darkness and awful stillness, this
smell of fresh butter. She crept across the side porch where the
churn stood like a ghost, a dish-towel on its tall handle and crossed
the weedy lawn, where the beehives seemed to be watching her, and
headed for the dark, open road. But here her courage failed. Some
thought of doing her errand in the morning occurred to her, but, she
could not go then without saying where and why she was going.
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