Then the growly thing in the sky came closer very quickly, and barked once like a dog on the roof of the shack. The Rural heard the scutter of its claws; at this point she woke up. She had been dreaming; though it is by no means certain that the concept was known to her. She was very afraid. She lay still, eyes tightly closed, feeling the claws prick the air all round about; but the bark did not come again. She opened her eyes, cautiously. Morning light was seeping through the one window the shack possessed. The light was greenish as yet, and dull. She turned her head, with equal slowness. Through the tilted panes she saw the Convolvulus King watching her, with the first white eyes of summer. She lay a while longer, but the place remained silent; no creak, no tick of timber, scuff of a footfall. Her notion of silence took no account of the roar from the embankment against which the shack was built. That was a part of her life, and accepted. It had always been there, like the noise of blood in her ears.
