Now all this time, while the tragi-comedy of life was being played in these three , while on a commonplace stage love and humor and fears and lights and shadows were so swiftly succeeding each other, and while these three families, drifted together by fate, were shaping each other's destinies and working out in their own fashion the strange, intricate ends of human life, there were human eyes which watched over every stage of the performance, and which were keenly critical of every actor on it. Across the road beyond the green palings and the close-cropped lawn, behind the curtains of their creeper-framed windows, sat the two old ladies, Miss Bertha and Miss Monica Williams, looking out as from a private box at all that was being before them. The growing friendship of the three families, the engagement of Harold Denver with Clara Walker, the engagement of Charles Westmacott with her sister, the dangerous which the widow exercised over the Doctor, the behavior of the Walker girls and the unhappiness which they had caused their father, not one of these incidents escaped the notice of the two ladies. Bertha the younger had a smile or a sigh for the lovers, Monica the elder a frown or a for the elders. Every night they talked over what they had seen, and their own dull, uneventful life took a warmth and a coloring from their neighbors as a blank wall reflects a fire.  
And now it was that they should experience the one keen sensation of their later years, the one incident from which all future incidents should be dated.
 
It was on the very night which succeeded the events which have just been , when suddenly into Monica William's head, as she tossed upon her bed, there shot a thought which made her sit up with a thrill and a .
 
“Bertha,” said she, plucking at the shoulder of her sister, “I have left the front window open.”
 
“No, Monica, surely not.” Bertha sat up also, and thrilled in sympathy.
 
“I am sure of it. You remember I had forgotten to water the pots, and then I opened the window, and Jane called me about the jam, and I have never been in the room since.”
 
“Good gracious, Monica, it is a mercy that we have not been murdered in our beds. There was a house broken into at Forest Hill last week. Shall we go down and shut it?”
 
“I dare not go down alone, dear, but if you will come with me. Put on your and dressing-gown. We do not need a candle. Now, Bertha, we will go down together.”
 
Two little white patches moved through the darkness, the stairs creaked, the door , and they were at the front room window. Monica closed it gently down, and fastened the snib.
 
“What a beautiful moon!” said she, looking out. “We can see as clearly as if it were day. How peaceful and quiet the three houses are over yonder! It seems quite sad to see that 'To Let' card upon number one. I wonder how number two will like their going. For my part I could better spare that dreadful woman at number three with her short skirts and her snake. But, oh, Bertha, look! look!! look!!!” Her voice had fallen suddenly to a quivering whisper and she was pointing to the Westmacotts' house. Her sister gave a gasp of horror, and stood with a clutch at Monica's arm, staring in the same direction.
 
There was a light in the front room, a slight, wavering light such as would be given by a small candle or . The blind was down, but the light shone dimly through. Outside in the garden, with his figure outlined against the square, there stood a man, his back to the road, his two hands upon the window , and his body rather as though he were trying to peep in past the blind. So absolutely still and motionless was he that in spite of the moon they might well have overlooked him were it not for that tell-tale light behind.
 
“Good heaven!” Bertha, “it is a burglar.”
 
But her sister set her mouth grimly and shook her head. “We shall see,” she whispered. “It may be something worse.”
 
Swiftly and

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