There is a dark stream crawling through the fur, meandering and
choosing its crooked way like a little brook in the summer grasses, and
it creeps on and on lazily toward the polished hearth. It will run on
until the flames drink it ... and when it reaches them I must get some
snow at the window and wash my hands ... but just now I can think of
nothing but how long it will be by the tick of the carved clock against
the wall before it reaches its goal ... of nothing but that, and how,
when the fire sinks and crumbles to ashes the waiting shadows will
steal from the corners where they hide and gather closer around me ...
and I shall have to sit motionless until the dawn, lest by chance I
should set my foot in that black little brook ... it is quiet ... but
those shadows are only waiting ... waiting in the corners!