When I got home, I peeped in at Connie's door the first thing, and saw that
she was raised a little more than usual; that is, the end of the conch
against which she leaned was at a more acute angle. She was sitting
staring, rather than gazing, out at the wild tumult which she could see
over the shoulder of the down on which her window immediately looked. Her
face was paler and keener than usual.
"Why, Connie, who set you up so straight?"
"Mr. Turner, papa. I wanted to see out, and he raised me himself. He says I
am so much better, I may have it in the seventh notch as often as I like."
"But you look too tired for it. Hadn't you better lie down again?"
"It's only the storm, papa."
"The more reason you should not see it if it tires you so."
"It does not tire me, papa. Only I keep constantly wondering what is going
to come out of it. It looks so as if something must follow."
"You didn't hear me come into your room last night, Connie. The storm was
raging then as loud as it is now, but you were out of its reach--fast
asleep.
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