"Even the rats are glad," Maggie thought
to herself. In the uncertain candle-light the fancy seized her that
one rat, a very large one, had crept out from his hole, crawled on
to the bed, and now sat on the sheet looking at her father. It would
be a horrible thing did the rat walk across her father's beard, and
yet for her life she could not move. She waited, fascinated. She
fancied that the beard stirred a little as though the rat had moved
it. She fancied that the rat grew and grew in size, now there were
many of them, all with their little sharp beady eyes watching the
corpse. Now there were none; only the large limbs outlined beneath
the spread, the waxen face, the ticking clock, the strange empty
shape of his grey dressing-gown hanging upon a nail on the wall.
Where was her father gone? She did not know, she did not care--only
she trusted that she would never meet him again--never again. Her
head nodded; her hands and feet were cold; the candle-light jumped,
the rats scampered . . . she slept.
When it was quite dark beyond the windows and the candles were low
Maggie came downstairs, stiff, cold, and very hungry.
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