Outside the wind
howled and the rain beat steadily against the window-pane. Rudolf and
Ann sat as close to the fire as they could get, waiting for Betsy to
bring the lamp. Peter had built himself a comfortable den beneath the
table and was having a quiet game of Bears with Mittens, the cat, for
his cub--quiet, that is, except for an angry mew now and then from
Mittens, who had not enjoyed an easy moment since the arrival of the
three children that morning.
"Rudolf," Ann was saying, as she looked uneasily over her shoulder,
"I almost wish we hadn't come to stay at Aunt Jane's alone without
mother. I don't believe I like this room, it's so big and creepy. I
don't want to go to bed. Especially"--she added, turning about and
pointing into the shadows behind her--"especially I don't want to go
to bed in that!"
The big bed in Aunt Jane's old nursery was the biggest and queerest
the children had ever seen. It was the very opposite of the little
white enameled beds they were used to sleeping in at their apartment
in New York, being a great old-fashioned four-poster with a canopy
almost touching the ceiling. It was hung with faded chintz, and
instead of a mattress it had a billowy feather bed over which were
tucked grandmother's hand-spun sheets and blankets covered by the
gayest of quilts in an elaborate pattern of sprigged and spotted
calico patches.
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