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THE WIND IN THE ROSEBUSH AND OTHER STORIES OF THE SUPERNATURAL .....................1

MARY WILKINS ....................................................................................................................................1

Ford Village has no railroad station, being on the other side of the river from Porter's Falls, and accessible

The ferryboat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she

and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferryboat as it shot swiftly

and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the

deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully

reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept looking at her

with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid, no attention

to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and

expressions of matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on her left hip,

as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who

The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid, except for an overdeveloped curiosity

which made her at times sharp beyond belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her flaccid cheeks; she

kept opening her mouth to speak, making little abortive motions. Finally she could endure it no longer; she

Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something which she determined to know, possibly roused

thereto by a vague sense of incongruity in the other's appearance. "It's a long ways to come and leave a

It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly loquacious. She turned to the other woman

and inquired if she knew John Dent's widow who lived in Ford Village. "Her husband died about three years

The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed; she cast a strange glance at her husband, who

"Well, his first wife was my sister," said Rebecca with the air of one imparting important intelligence.

"Was she?" responded the other woman feebly. She glanced at her husband with an expression of doubt and

"Nothin', I guess," replied the woman, with eyes on her husband, who was slowly shaking his head, like a

"No, she ain't sick," replied the woman with alacrity, then she caught her breath with a gasp.

"Let me see; I ain't seen her for some little time," replied the woman. Then she caught her breath again.

"She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes after my sister. She was a real pretty woman," Rebecca

The woman glanced at her husband's warning face. She continued to gaze at him while she replied in a

"Iguess she's a nice woman," she replied. "Idon't know, I guess so. Idon't see much of her."

"I felt kind of hurt that John married again so quick," said Rebecca; "but I suppose he wanted his house kept,

and Agnes wanted care. I wasn't so situated that I could take her when her mother died. I had my own mother

to care for, and I was schoolteaching. Now mother has gone, and my uncle died six months ago and left me

quite a little property, and I've given up my school, and I've come for Agnes. I guess she'll be glad to go with

me, though I suppose her stepmother is a good woman, and has always done for her."

John Dent's widow had sent a horse and wagon to meet her sisterinlaw. When the woman and her husband

went down the road, on which Rebecca in the wagon with her trunk soon passed them, she said reproachfully:

"Let her find it out herself," replied the man. "Don't you go to burnin' your fingers in other folks' puddin',

"Do you s'pose she'll see anything?" asked the woman with a spasmodic shudder and a terrified roll of her

"See!" returned her husband with stolid scorn. "Better be sure there's anything to see."

"But if it should be true, and she's a nervous woman, she might be scared enough to lose her wits," said his

wife, staring uneasily after Rebecca's erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the crest of the hilly road.

"Wits that so easy upset ain't worth much," declared the man. "You keep out of it, Maria."

Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxenheaded boy, who looked, to her understanding,

not very bright. She asked him a question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it, and he responded with a

bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive

They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square, and gone a short distance beyond, when the

boy drew up with a sudden Whoa! before a very prosperouslooking house. It had been one of the aboriginal

cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a roof extending on one side over a piazza, and a tiny "L"

jutting out in the rear, on the right hand. Now the cottage was transformed by dormer windows, a bay

window on the piazzaless side, a carved railing down the front steps, and a modern hardwood door.

The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher. His only response was in flinging the reins over the

horse's back, stretching out one foot to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon, then going around to the rear

for the trunk. Rebecca got out and went toward the house. Its white paint had a new gloss; its blinds were an

immaculate apple green; the lawn was trimmed as smooth as velvet, and it was dotted with scrupulous groups

"I always understood that John Dent was welltodo," Rebecca reflected comfortably. "I guess Agnes will

have considerable. I've got enough, but it will come in handy for her schooling. She can have advantages."

The boy dragged the trunk up the fine gravelwalk, but before he reached the steps leading up to the piazza,

for the house stood on a terrace, the front door opened and a fair, frizzled head of a very large and handsome

woman appeared. She held up her black silk skirt, disclosing voluminous ruffles of starched embroidery, and

waited for Rebecca. She smiled placidly, her pink, doublechinned face widened and dimpled, but her blue

eyes were wary and calculating. She extended her hand as Rebecca climbed the steps.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Rebecca, noticing with bewilderment a curious expression compounded of fear and

"Your letter only arrived this morning," said Mrs. Dent, in a steady voice. Her great face was a uniform pink,

"Yes, I hardly thought you'd get my letter," replied Rebecca. "I felt as if I could not wait to hear from you

before I came. I supposed you would be so situated that you could have me a little while without putting you

out too much, from what John used to write me about his circumstances, and when I had that money so

unexpected I felt as if I must come for Agnes. I suppose you will be willing to give her up. You know she's

my own blood, and of course she's no relation to you, though you must have got attached to her. I know from

her picture what a sweet girl she must be, and John always said she looked like her own mother, and Grace

Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement and alarm. The great handsome blonde

creature stood speechless, livid, gasping, with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horrible caricature of

"Are you sick!" cried Rebecca, drawing near. "Don't you want me to get you some water!"

Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. "It is nothing," she said. "I am subject tospells. I am

As she spoke, the beautiful deeprose colour suffused her face, her blue eyes met her visitor's with the

opaqueness of turquoisewith a revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind.

Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk.

But before they entered the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace close to the piazzapost,

grew a great rosebush, and on it, late in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose.

Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a quick gesture. "Don't you pick that

As Rebecca spoke she started violently, and lost sight of her resentment, for something singular happened.

Suddenly the rosebush was agitated violently as if by a gust of wind, yet it was a remarkably still day. Not a

"What on earth" began Rebecca, then she stopped with a gasp at the sight of the other woman's face.

Although a face, it gave somehow the impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy.

"Come in!" said she in a harsh voice, which seemed to come forth from her chest with no intervention of the

"What makes that rosebush blow so when their isn't any wind?" asked Rebecca, trembling with vague

"I don't see as it is blowing," returned the woman calmly. And as she spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet.

"It isn't now," said Mrs. Dent. "I can't try to account for everything that blows outofdoors. I have too much

She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and

"It looked queer," persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also the boy with the trunk.

Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to her simple ideas. There were Brussels

"You're real nicely situated," remarked Rebecca, after she had become a little accustomed to her new

Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silverplated service. "Yes, I be," said she.

"You got all the things new?" said Rebecca hesitatingly, with a jealous memory of her dead sister's bridal

"Yes," said Mrs. Dent; "I was never one to want dead folks' things, and I had money enough of my own, so I

wasn't beholden to John. I had the old duds put up at auction. They didn't bring much."

"I suppose you saved some for Agnes. She'll want some of her poor mother's things when she is grown up,"

The defiant stare of Mrs. Dent's blue eyes waxed more intense. "There's a few things up garret," said she.

"She'll be likely to value them," remarked Rebecca. As she spoke she glanced at the window. "Isn't it most

"Most time," answered Mrs. Dent carelessly; "but when she gets over to Addie Slocum's she never knows

"Maybe we can have her come out to see Agnes when she's living with me," said Rebecca wistfully. "I

"No, she calls me Aunt Emeline," replied the other woman shortly. "When did you say you were going

"In about a week, I thought, if she can be ready to go so soon," answered Rebecca with a surprised look.

She reflected that she would not remain a day longer than she could help after such an inhospitable look and

"Oh, as far as that goes," said Mrs. Dent, "it wouldn't make any difference about her being ready. You could

"My niece will go home when I do, and not travel alone; and if I can't wait here for her, in the house that used

to be her mother's and my sister's home, I'll go and board somewhere," returned Rebecca with warmth.

Then Rebecca started. "There she is!" she declared in a trembling, exultant voice. Nobody knew how she

"She isn't as late as I thought she'd be," said Mrs. Dent, and again that curious, subtle change passed over her

Rebecca stared at the door, waiting for it to open. "Where is she?" she asked presently.

Rebecca waited. "Why don't she come? It can't take her all this time to take off her hat."

"Agnes!" she called. "Agnes!" Then she turned and eyed Rebecca. "She ain't there."

"I did. I saw first a shadow go over the ceiling, then I saw her in the glass there"she pointed to a mirror

"Little and lighthaired, with the light hair kind of tossing over her forehead."

"Like enough; but of course you didn't see her. You've been thinking so much about her that you thought you

"I thought I saw a shadow pass the window, but I must have been mistaken. She didn't come in, or we would

have seen her before now. I knew it was too early for her to get home from Addie Slocum's, anyhow."

When Rebecca went to bed Agnes had not returned. Rebecca had resolved that she would not retire until the

girl came, but she was very tired, and she reasoned with herself that she was foolish. Besides, Mrs. Dent

suggested that Agnes might go to the church social with Addie Slocum. When Rebecca suggested that she be

"I guess you'll find out that a young girl ain't so ready to leave a sociable, where there's boys, to see her aunt,"

"She's going to school four years after I get her before she thinks of boys," declared Rebecca.

After Rebecca went to bed, she lay awake a long time listening for the sound of girlish laughter and a boy's

The next morning she was down early. Mrs. Dent, who kept no servants, was busily preparing breakfast.

Rebecca was uneasy, but she tried to conceal it, for she knew of no good reason for uneasiness. What was

there to occasion alarm in the fact of one young girl staying overnight with another? She could not eat much

breakfast. Afterward she went out on the little piazza, although her hostess strove furtively to stop her.

"Why don't you go out back of the house? It's real prettya view over the river," she said.

"I guess I'll go out here," replied Rebecca. She had a purpose: to watch for the absent girl.

Presently Rebecca came hustling into the house through the sittingroom, into the kitchen where Mrs. Dent

Mrs. Dent turned with an inimitable toss of her fair head. "If you think I can spend my time puzzling over

such nonsense as" she began, but Rebecca interrupted her with a cry and a rush to the door.

"There she is now!" she cried. She flung the door wide open, and curiously enough a breeze came in and her

own gray hair tossed, and a paper blew off the table to the floor with a loud rustle, but there was nobody in

She looked blankly at the other woman, who brought her rollingpin down on a slab of piecrust with a thud.

Rebecca shut the door. She sat down beside the window and looked out on the autumnal yard, with its little

"What smells so strong of roses in this room?" she said presently. She sniffed hard.

"Oh, perhaps she has gone over the ferry to Porter's Falls with Addie. She often does. Addie's got an aunt

Rebecca waited with all the patience she could muster. She kept reassuring herself, telling herself that it was

all natural, that the other woman could not help it, but she made up her mind that if Agnes did not return that

When it was four o'clock she started up with resolution. She had been furtively watching the onyx clock on

the sittingroom mantel; she had timed herself. She had said that if Agnes was not home by that time she

should demand that she be sent for. She rose and stood before Mrs. Dent, who looked up coolly from her

"I've waited just as long as I'm going to," she said. "I've come 'way from Michigan to see my own sister's

daughter and take her home with me. I've been here ever since yesterdaytwentyfour hoursand I haven't

"Well, I don't blame you," she said. "It is high time she came home. I'll go right over and get her myself."

Rebecca heaved a sigh of relief. She hardly knew what she had suspected or feared, but she knew that her

position had been one of antagonism if not accusation, and she was sensible of relief.

"I wish you would," she said gratefully, and went back to her chair, while Mrs. Dent got her shawl and her

little white headtie. "I wouldn't trouble you, but I do feel as if I couldn't wait any longer to see her," she

"Oh, it ain't any trouble at all," said Mrs. Dent as she went out. "I don't blame you; you have waited long

Rebecca sat at the window watching breathlessly until Mrs. Dent came stepping through the yard alone. She

ran to the door and saw, hardly noticing it this time, that the rosebush was again violently agitated, yet with

Mrs. Dent laughed with stiff lips as she came up the steps over the terrace. "Girls will be girls," said she.

"She's gone with Addie to Lincoln. Addie's got an uncle who's conductor on the train, and lives there, and he

got 'em passes, and they're goin' to stay to Addie's Aunt Margaret's a few days. Mrs. Slocum said Agnes

didn't have time to come over and ask me before the train went, but she took it on herself to say it would be

"Why hadn't she been over to tell you?" Rebecca was angry, though not suspicious. She even saw no reason

"Oh, she was putting up grapes. She was coming over just as soon as she got the black off her hands. She

heard I had company, and her hands were a sight. She was holding them over sulphur matches."

"About fifty miles. It'll be a real treat to her. Mrs. Slocum's sister is a real nice woman."

"If you don't feel as if you could wait, I'll get her ready and send her on just as soon as I can," Mrs. Dent said

"Is there any sewing I can do for her?" Rebecca asked finally in a desperate way. "If I can get her sewing

Mrs. Dent arose with alacrity and fetched a mass of white from the closet. "Here," she said, "if you want to

sew the lace on this nightgown. I was going to put her to it, but she'll be glad enough to get rid of it. She

ought to have this and one more before she goes. I don't like to send her away without some good

That night she wakened from a deep sleep a little after midnight and lay a minute trying to collect her

faculties and explain to herself what she was listening to. At last she discovered that it was the then popular

strains of "The Maiden's Prayer" floating up through the floor from the piano in the sittingroom below. She

jumped up, threw a shawl over her nightgown, and hurried downstairs trembling. There was nobody in the

sittingroom; the piano was silent. She ran to Mrs. Dent's bedroom and called hysterically:

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Dent's voice from the bed. The voice was stern, but had a note of consciousness in it.

"Whowho was that playing 'The Maiden's Prayer' in the sittingroom, on the piano?"

"I didsomebody playing 'The Maiden's Prayer' on the piano. Has Agnes got home? I WANT TO KNOW."

"Of course Agnes hasn't got home," answered Mrs. Dent with rising inflection. "Be you gone crazy over that

girl? The last boat from Porter's Falls was in before we went to bed. Of course she ain't come."

The next morning her eyes upon Mrs. Dent were wary and blazing with suppressed excitement. She kept

opening her mouth as if to speak, then frowning, and setting her lips hard. After breakfast she went upstairs,

Mrs. Dent gave a strange, long, halflidded glance at her. She was finishing her coffee.

"I'm going over there and find out if they have heard anything from her daughter and Agnes since they went

"It don't make any odds whether I was or not. Does she play 'The Maiden's Prayer' on the piano? I want to

"What if she does? She plays it a little, I believe. I don't know. She don't half play it, anyhow; she ain't got an

"That wasn't half played last night. I don't like such things happening. I ain't superstitious, but I don't like it.

"You go down the road over the bridge past the old grist mill, then you turn to the left; it's the only house for

half a mile. You can t miss it. It has a barn with a ship in full sail on the cupola."

About two hours later Rebecca returned. There were red spots on her cheeks. She looked wild. "I've been

"I don't know. Something. I had a warning last night. There wasn't a soul there. They've been sent for to

"I asked the woman that lives on the turn of the road. She's stone deaf. I suppose you know. She listened

while I screamed at her to know where the Slocums were, and then she said, 'Mrs. Smith don't live here.' I

didn't see anybody on the road, and that's the only house. What do you suppose it means?"

"I don't suppose it means much of anything," replied Mrs. Dent coolly. "Mr. Slocum is conductor on the

railroad, and he'd be away anyway, and Mrs. Slocum often goes early when he does, to spend the day with

"And you don't think anything has happened?" Rebecca asked with diminishing distrust before the

Rebecca went upstairs to lay aside her coat and bonnet. But she came hurrying back with them still on.

"I found when I went upstairs thatlittle nightgown ofAgnes's onthe bed, laid out. It wasLAID

OUT. The sleeves were folded across the bosom, and there was that little red rose between them. Emeline,

Mrs. Dent was struggling for breath in great, choking gasps. She clung to the back of a chair. Rebecca,

As soon as she recovered herself Mrs. Dent regarded her with eyes full of the strangest mixture of fear and

Rebecca looked at her; her mouth gaped. She hurried out of the room. When she came back her eyes seemed

to protrude. (She had in the meantime hastened upstairs, and come down with tottering steps, clinging to the

"The rose is on the bush, and it's gone from the bed in my room! Is this house haunted, or what?"

"I don't know anything about a house being haunted. I don't believe in such things. Be you crazy?" Mrs. Dent

"No," said Rebecca shortly. "I ain't crazy yet, but I shall be if this keeps on much longer. I'm going to find out

However, Rebecca did not go; such a rain came up as deterred even her resolution, and she had only her best

dresses with her. Then in the evening came the letter from the Michigan village which she had left nearly a

week ago. It was from her cousin, a single woman, who had come to keep her house while she was away. It

was a pleasant unexciting letter enough, all the first of it, and related mostly how she missed Rebecca; how

she hoped she was having pleasant weather and kept her health; and how her friend, Mrs. Greenaway, had

come to stay with her since she had felt lonesome the first night in the house; how she hoped Rebecca would

have no objections to this, although nothing had been said about it, since she had not realized that she might

be nervous alone. The cousin was painfully conscientious, hence the letter. Rebecca smiled in spite of her

disturbed mind as she read it, then her eye caught the postscript. That was in a different hand, purporting to

be written by the friend, Mrs. Hannah Greenaway, informing her that the cousin had fallen down the cellar

stairs and broken her hip, and was in a dangerous condition, and begging Rebecca to return at once, as she

herself was rheumatic and unable to nurse her properly, and no one else could be obtained.

Rebecca looked at Mrs. Dent, who had come to her room with the letter quite late; it was halfpast nine, and

"The postmaster. He often brings the letters that come on the late mail. He knows I ain't anybody to send. He

brought yours about your coming. He said he and his wife came over on the ferryboat with you."

"Yes, my Cousin Harriet has fallen down the cellar stairsthey were always dangerousand she's broken

"No, you ain't sorry!" said Rebecca, with a look as if she leaped. "You're glad. I don't know why, but you're

glad. You've wanted to get rid of me for some reason ever since I came. I don't know why. You're a strange

"I talk the way it is. Well, I'm going tomorrow morning, and I want you, just as soon as Agnes Dent comes

home, to send her out to me. Don't you wait for anything. You pack what clothes she's got, and don't wait

even to mend them, and you buy her ticket. I'll leave the money, and you send her along. She don't have to

"Very well," replied the other woman. She had an expression of covert amusement.

Rebecca started on her journey the next morning. When she arrived, two days later, she found her cousin in

perfect health. She found, moreover, that the friend had not written the postscript in the cousin's letter.

Rebecca would have returned to Ford Village the next morning, but the fatigue and nervous strain had been

too much for her. She was not able to move from her bed. She had a species of low fever induced by anxiety

and fatigue. But she could write, and she did, to the Slocums, and she received no answer. She also wrote to

Mrs. Dent; she even sent numerous telegrams, with no response. Finally she wrote to the postmaster, and an

answer arrived by the first possible mail. The letter was short, curt, and to the purpose. Mr. Amblecrom, the

postmaster, was a man of few words, and especially wary as to his expressions in a letter.

"Dear madam," he wrote, "your favour rec'ed. No Slocums in Ford's Village. All dead. Addie ten years ago,

her mother two years later, her father five. House vacant. Mrs. John Dent said to have neglected stepdaughter.

Girl was sick. Medicine not given. Talk of taking action. Not enough evidence. House said to be haunted.

Strange sights and sounds. Your niece, Agnes Dent, died a year ago, about this time.

"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before Edward died," said Caroline Glynn.

She was elderly, tall, and harshly thin, with a hard colourlessness of face. She spoke not with acrimony, but

with grave severity. Rebecca Ann Glynn, younger, stouter and rosy of face between her crinkling puffs of

gray hair, gasped, by way of assent. She sat in a wide flounce of black silk in the corner of the sofa, and

rolled terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her sister Mrs. Stephen Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn,

the one beauty of the family. She was beautiful still, with a large, splendid, fullblown beauty; she filled a

great rockingchair with her superb bulk of femininity, and swayed gently back and forth, her black silks

whispering and her black frills fluttering. Even the shock of death (for her brother Edward lay dead in the

house,) could not disturb her outward serenity of demeanour. She was grieved over the loss of her brother: he

had been the youngest, and she had been fond of him, but never had Emma Brigham lost sight of her own

importance amidst the waters of tribulation. She was always awake to the consciousness of her own stability

But even her expression of masterly placidity changed before her sister Caroline's announcement and her

"I think Henry might have controlled his temper, when poor Edward was so near his end," said she with an

"Of course he did not KNOW," murmured Rebecca Ann in a faint tone strangely out of keeping with her

One involuntarily looked again to be sure that such a feeble pipe came from that fullswelling chest.

"Of course he did not know it," said Caroline quickly. She turned on her sister with a strange sharp look of

suspicion. "How could he have known it?" said she. Then she shrank as if from the other's possible answer.

"Of course you and I both know he could not," said she conclusively, but her pale face was paler than it had

Rebecca gasped again. The married sister, Mrs. Emma Brigham, was now sitting up straight in her chair; she

had ceased rocking, and was eyeing them both intently with a sudden accentuation of family likeness in her

face. Given one common intensity of emotion and similar lines showed forth, and the three sisters of one race

"What do you mean?" said she impartially to them both. Then she, too, seemed to shrink before a possible

answer. She even laughed an evasive sort of laugh. "I guess you don't mean anything," said she, but her face

"Nobody means anything," said Caroline firmly. She rose and crossed the room toward the door with grim

"I have something to see to," replied Caroline, and the others at once knew by her tone that she had some

"They were talking very loud," replied Rebecca evasively, yet with an answering gleam of ready response to

Mrs. Brigham looked at her. She had not resumed rocking. She still sat up straight with a slight knitting of

intensity on her fair forehead, between the pretty rippling curves of her auburn hair.

"I was just across the hall in the south parlour, and that door was open and this door ajar," replied Rebecca

"I suppose Henry was mad, as he always was, because Edward was living on here for nothing, when he had

When Emma spoke again her voice was still more hushed. "I know how he felt," said she. "He had always

been so prudent himself, and worked hard at his profession, and there Edward had never done anything but

spend, and it must have looked to him as if Edward was living at his expense, but he wasn't."

"It was the way father left the propertythat all the children should have a home hereand he left money

"And Edward had a right here according to the terms of father's will, and Henry ought to have remembered

"I heard him tell Edward that he had no business here at all, and he thought he had better go away."

"That he would stay here as long as he lived and afterward, too, if he was a mind to, and he would like to see

Then Caroline reentered the room. She went up to the stove in which a wood fire was burningit was a cold,

gloomy day of fall and she warmed her hands, which were reddened from recent washing in cold water.

Mrs. Brigham looked at her and hesitated. She glanced at the door, which was still ajar, as it did not easily

shut, being still swollen with the damp weather of the summer. She rose and pushed it together with a sharp

thud which jarred the house. Rebecca started painfully with a half exclamation. Caroline looked at her

"I can't help it," replied Rebecca with almost a wail. "I am nervous. There's enough to make me so, the Lord

"What do you mean by that?" asked Caroline with her old air of sharp suspicion, and something between

Emma, returning from the closed door, said imperiously that it ought to be fixed, it shut so hard.

"It will shrink enough after we have had the fire a few days," replied Caroline. "If anything is done to it it will

"I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself for talking as he did to Edward," said Mrs. Brigham abruptly,

"Well, I can say what I want to before he comes down, and I am not afraid of him."

"I don't know who is afraid of him! What reason is there for anybody to be afraid of Henry?" demanded

Mrs. Brigham trembled before her sister's look. Rebecca gasped again. "There isn't any reason, of course.

"I wouldn't speak so, then. Somebody might overhear you and think it was queer. Miranda Joy is in the south

"I say again I think Henry ought to be ashamed of himself. I shouldn't think he'd ever get over it, having

words with poor Edward the very night before he died. Edward was enough sight better disposition than

Henry, with all his faults. I always thought a great deal of poor Edward, myself."

Mrs. Brigham passed a large fluff of handkerchief across her eyes; Rebecca sobbed outright.

"Rebecca," said Caroline admonishingly, keeping her mouth stiff and swallowing determinately.

"I never heard him speak a cross word, unless he spoke cross to Henry that last night. I don't know, but he did

"Not so much cross as sort of soft, and sweet, and aggravating," sniffled Rebecca.

"He had as much of a right here as Henry," sobbed Rebecca, "and now he's gone, and he will never be in this

"What do you really think ailed Edward?" asked Emma in hardly more than a whisper. She did not look at her

Caroline sat down in a nearby armchair, and clutched the arms convulsively until her thin knuckles whitened.

Rebecca held her handkerchief over her mouth, and looked at them above it with terrified, streaming eyes.

"I know you said that he had terrible pains in his stomach, and had spasms, but what do you think made him

Mrs. Brigham hesitated a moment. "Was there any talk of an examination?" said she.

The three sisters' souls seemed to meet on one common ground of terrified understanding though their eyes.

The oldfashioned latch of the door was heard to rattle, and a push from without made the door shake

ineffectually. "It's Henry," Rebecca sighed rather than whispered. Mrs. Brigham settled herself after a

noiseless rush across the floor into her rockingchair again, and was swaying back and forth with her head

comfortably leaning back, when the door at last yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp,

comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at Rebecca quietly huddled in the corner of

the sofa with her handkerchief to her face and only one small reddened ear as attentive as a dog's uncovered

and revealing her alertness for his presence; at Caroline sitting with a strained composure in her armchair by

the stove. She met his eyes quite firmly with a look of inscrutable fear, and defiance of the fear and of him.

Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others. Both had the same hard delicacy of form and

feature, both were tall and almost emaciated, both had a sparse growth of gray blond hair far back from high

intellectual foreheads, both had an almost noble aquilinity of feature. They confronted each other with the

pitiless immovability of two statues in whose marble lineaments emotions were fixed for all eternity.

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face. He looked suddenly years younger, and an

almost boyish recklessness and irresolution appeared in his face. He flung himself into a chair with a gesture

which was bewildering from its incongruity with his general appearance. He leaned his head back, flung one

She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the corners. She was susceptible to praise.

"Our thoughts today ought to belong to the one of us who will NEVER grow older," said Caroline in a hard

Henry looked at her, still smiling. "Of course, we none of us forget that," said he, in a deep, gentle voice, "but

we have to speak to the living, Caroline, and I have not seen Emma for a long time, and the living are as dear

She rose, and went abruptly out of the room again. Rebecca also rose and hurried after her, sobbing loudly.

"Caroline is completely unstrung," said he. Mrs. Brigham rocked. A confidence in him inspired by his

manner was stealing over her. Out of that confidence she spoke quite easily and naturally.

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham felt a creep as of some live horror over her very soul. Her flesh prickled with cold,

Mrs. Brigham said something incoherent about some sewing which she had to do, some black for the funeral,

and was out of the room. She went up to the front chamber which she occupied. Caroline was there. She went

"Don't speak, don't, I won't have it!" said Caroline finally in an awful whisper.

That afternoon the three sisters were in the study, the large front room on the ground floor across the hall

Mrs. Brigham was hemming some black material. She sat close to the west window for the waning light. At

"It's no use, I cannot see to sew another stitch until we have a light," said she.

Caroline, who was writing some letters at the table, turned to Rebecca, in her usual place on the sofa.

"It doesn't seem to me that we need a lamp quite yet," she said in a piteous, pleading voice like a child's.

"Yes, we do," returned Mrs. Brigham peremptorily. "We must have a light. I must finish this tonight or I

"Caroline can see to write letters, and she is farther from the window than you are," said Rebecca.

"Are you trying to save kerosene or are you lazy, Rebecca Glynn?" cried Mrs. Brigham. "I can go and get the

"I am sure I don't want to take my sewing into the other room, when it is all cleaned up for tomorrow," said

Rebecca rose and left the room. Presently she entered with a lamp a large one with a white porcelain

shade. She set it on a table, an oldfashioned cardtable which was placed against the opposite wall from the

window. That wall was clear of bookcases and books, which were only on three sides of the room. That

opposite wall was taken up with three doors, the one small space being occupied by the table. Above the table

on the oldfashioned paper, of a white satin gloss, traversed by an indeterminate green scroll, hung quite high

a small gilt and blackframed ivory miniature taken in her girlhood of the mother of the family. When the

lamp was set on the table beneath it, the tiny pretty face painted on the ivory seemed to gleam out with a look

"What have you put that lamp over there for?" asked Mrs. Brigham, with more of impatience than her voice

usually revealed. "Why didn't you set it in the hall and have done with it. Neither Caroline nor I can see if it is

"If I do move, we can't both sit at that table. Caroline has her paper all spread around. Why don't you set the

Rebecca hesitated. Her face was very pale. She looked with an appeal that was fairly agonizing at her sister

"Why don't you put the lamp on this table, as she says?" asked Caroline, almost fiercely. "Why do you act so,

"I should think you WOULD ask her that," said Mrs. Brigham. "She doesn't act like herself at all."

Rebecca took the lamp and set it on the table in the middle of the room without another word. Then she

turned her back upon it quickly and seated herself on the sofa, and placed a hand over her eyes as if to shade

"Does the light hurt your eyes, and is that the reason why you didn't want the lamp?" asked Mrs. Brigham

"I always like to sit in the dark," replied Rebecca chokingly. Then she snatched her handkerchief hastily from

Suddenly Mrs. Brigham as she sewed glanced at the opposite wall. The glance became a steady stare. She

looked intently, her work suspended in her hands. Then she looked away again and took a few more stitches,

then she looked again, and again turned to her task. At last she laid her work in her lap and stared

concentratedly. She looked from the wall around the room, taking note of the various objects; she looked at

"Why don't you turn around and look?" asked Mrs. Brigham in a wondering and somewhat aggrieved way.

"I am in a hurry to finish this letter, if Mrs. Wilson Ebbit is going to get word in time to come to the funeral,"

Mrs. Brigham rose, her work slipping to the floor, and she began walking around the room, moving various

"Look at this awful shadow! What is it? Caroline, look, look! Rebecca, look! WHAT IS IT?"

All Mrs. Brigham's triumphant placidity was gone. Her handsome face was livid with horror. She stood

"Caroline Glynn, you look!" said Mrs. Brigham. "Look! What is that dreadful shadow?"

"Yes. He died Thursday and this is Saturday; that makes three nights," said Caroline rigidly. She stood as if

"I know what it looks like well enough," said Caroline. "I've got eyes in my head."

"Yes, it does," assented Mrs. Brigham, whose horrorstricken tone matched her sister's, "only Oh, it is

"I ask you again, how should I know?" replied Caroline. "I see it there like you. How should I know any more

"We moved everything in the room the first night it came," said Rebecca; "it is not anything in the room."

Caroline turned upon her with a sort of fury. "Of course it is something in the room," said she. "How you act!

"Of course, it is," agreed Mrs. Brigham, looking at Caroline suspiciously. "Of course it must be. It is only a

coincidence. It just happens so. Perhaps it is that fold of the window curtain that makes it. It must be

The door opened suddenly and Henry Glynn entered. He began to speak, then his eyes followed the direction

of the others'. He stood stock still staring at the shadow on the wall. It was life size and stretched across the

white parallelogram of a door, half across the wall space on which the picture hung.

"It is not due to anything in the room," said Rebecca again with the shrill insistency of terror.

Henry Glynn stood and stared a moment longer. His face showed a gamut of emotionshorror, conviction,

then furious incredulity. Suddenly he began hastening hither and thither about the room. He moved the

furniture with fierce jerks, turning ever to see the effect upon the shadow on the wall. Not a line of its terrible

"It must be something in the room!" he declared in a voice which seemed to snap like a lash.

His face changed. The inmost secrecy of his nature seemed evident until one almost lost sight of his

lineaments. Rebecca stood close to her sofa, regarding him with woeful, fascinated eyes. Mrs. Brigham

clutched Caroline's hand. They both stood in a corner out of his way. For a few moments he raged about the

room like a caged wild animal. He moved every piece of furniture; when the moving of a piece did not affect

Then suddenly he desisted. He laughed and began straightening the furniture which he had flung down.

"That's so," assented Mrs. Brigham, in a scared voice which she tried to make natural. As she spoke she lifted

Terror and wrath were struggling for expression on her face. Her mouth was set, her eyes shrinking. Henry

"Just as good as ever," he said pleasantly. He laughed again, looking at his sisters. "Did I scare you?" he said.

"I should think you might be used to me by this time. You know my way of wanting to leap to the bottom of

a mystery, and that shadow does lookqueer, likeand I thought if there was any way of accounting for it I

"You don't seem to have succeeded," remarked Caroline dryly, with a slight glance at the wall.

"Oh, there is no accounting for shadows," he said, and he laughed again. "A man is a fool to try to account for

Then the supper bell rang, and they all left the room, but Henry kept his back to the wall, as did, indeed, the

Mrs. Brigham pressed close to Caroline as she crossed the hall. "He looked like a demon!" she breathed in

Henry led the way with an alert motion like a boy; Rebecca brought up the rear; she could scarcely walk, her

"I can't sit in that room again this evening," she whispered to Caroline after supper.

"Very well, we will sit in the south room," replied Caroline. "I think we will sit in the south parlour," she said

So they all sat in the south room with their sewing. Henry read the newspaper, his chair drawn close to the

lamp on the table. About nine o'clock he rose abruptly and crossed the hall to the study. The three sisters

looked at one another. Mrs. Brigham rose, folded her rustling skirts compactly around her, and began

She pointed as she spoke to the study door across the hall; it was ajar. Henry had striven to pull it together

behind him, but it had somehow swollen beyond the limit with curious speed. It was still ajar and a streak of

Then she folded her skirts so tightly that her bulk with its swelling curves was revealed in a black silk sheath,

and she went with a slow toddle across the hall to the study door. She stood there, her eye at the crack.

In the south room Rebecca stopped sewing and sat watching with dilated eyes. Caroline sewed steadily. What

Henry Glynn, evidently reasoning that the source of the strange shadow must be between the table on which

the lamp stood and the wall, was making systematic passes and thrusts all over and through the intervening

space with an old sword which had belonged to his father. Not an inch was left unpierced. He seemed to have

divided the space into mathematical sections. He brandished the sword with a sort of cold fury and

calculation; the blade gave out flashes of light, the shadow remained unmoved. Mrs. Brigham, watching, felt

Finally Henry ceased and stood with the sword in hand and raised as if to strike, surveying the shadow on the

wall threateningly. Mrs. Brigham toddled back across the hall and shut the south room door behind her before

"He looked like a demon!" she said again. "Have you got any of that old wine in the house, Caroline? I don't

Indeed, she looked overcome. Her handsome placid face was worn and strained and pale.

"I think we had all better take some," said Mrs. Brigham. "Oh, my God, Caroline, what"

"I am going to bed," said Mrs. Brigham. "I sha'n't be able to be at the funeral if I don't."

Soon the three sisters went to their chambers and the south parlour was deserted. Caroline called to Henry in

the study to put out the light before he came upstairs. They had been gone about an hour when he came into

the room bringing the lamp which had stood in the study. He set it on the table and waited a few minutes,

pacing up and down. His face was terrible, his fair complexion showed livid; his blue eyes seemed dark

Then he took the lamp up and returned to the library. He set the lamp on the centre table, and the shadow

sprang out on the wall. Again he studied the furniture and moved it about, but deliberately, with none of his

former frenzy. Nothing affected the shadow. Then he returned to the south room with the lamp and again

waited. Again he returned to the study and placed the lamp on the table, and the shadow sprang out upon the

wall. It was midnight before he went upstairs. Mrs. Brigham and the other sisters, who could not sleep, heard

The next day was the funeral. That evening the family sat in the south room. Some relatives were with them.

Nobody entered the study until Henry carried a lamp in there after the others had retired for the night. He saw

The next morning at breakfast Henry Glynn announced that he had to go to the city for three days. The sisters

looked at him with surprise. He very seldom left home, and just now his practice had been neglected on

"I don't know how to, but there is no other way," replied Henry easily. "I have had a telegram from Doctor

Doctor Mitford was an old classmate of his who lived in a neighbouring city and who occasionally called

After he had gone Mrs. Brigham said to Caroline that after all Henry had not said that he was going to consult

Nobody entered the library that day, nor the next, nor the next. The third day Henry was expected home, but

"I call it pretty queer work," said Mrs. Brigham. "The idea of a doctor leaving his patients for three days

anyhow, at such a time as this, and I know he has some very sick ones; he said so. And the idea of a

consultation lasting three days! There is no sense in it, and NOW he has not come. I don't understand it, for

They were all in the south parlour. There was no light in the study opposite, and the door was ajar.

Presently Mrs. Brigham roseshe could not have told why; something seemed to impel her, some will

outside her own. She went out of the room, again wrapping her rustling skirts around that she might pass

Caroline, who was writing letters, rose again, took a lamp (there were two in the room) and followed her

The doorbell rang, but the others did not hear it; it was on the south door on the other side of the house from

the study. Rebecca, after hesitating until the bell rang the second time, went to the door; she remembered that

Caroline and her sister Emma entered the study. Caroline set the lamp on the table. They looked at the wall.

"Oh, my God," gasped Mrs. Brigham, "there arethere are TWOshadows." The sisters stood clutching

each other, staring at the awful things on the wall. Then Rebecca came in, staggering, with a telegram in her

Close to the village street stood the onestory house in which Luella Miller, who had an evil name in the

village, had dwelt. She had been dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, in spite of the clearer

light which comes on a vantagepoint from a longpast danger, half believed in the tale which they had

heard from their childhood. In their hearts, although they scarcely would have owned it, was a survival of the

wild horror and frenzied fear of their ancestors who had dwelt in the same age with Luella Miller. Young

people even would stare with a shudder at the old house as they passed, and children never played around it

as was their wont around an untenanted building. Not a window in the old Miller house was broken: the

panes reflected the morning sunlight in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging front door

was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had

no tenant except one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and the faroff shelter of the open

sky. This old woman, who had survived her kindred and friends, lived in the house one week, then one

morning no smoke came out of the chimney, and a body of neighbours, a score strong, entered and found her

dead in her bed. There were dark whispers as to the cause of her death, and there were those who testified to

an expression of fear so exalted that it showed forth the state of the departing soul upon the dead face. The

old woman had been hale and hearty when she entered the house, and in seven days she was dead; it seemed

that she had fallen a victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the pulpit with covert severity

against the sin of superstition; still the belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen the

almshouse rather than that dwelling. No vagrant, if he heard the tale, would seek shelter beneath that old roof,

There was only one person in the village who had actually known Luella Miller. That person was a woman

well over eighty, but a marvel of vitality and unextinct youth. Straight as an arrow, with the spring of one

recently let loose from the bow of life, she moved about the streets, and she always went to church, rain or

shine. She had never married, and had lived alone for years in a house across the road from Luella Miller's.

This woman had none of the garrulousness of age, but never in all her life had she ever held her tongue for

any will save her own, and she never spared the truth when she essayed to present it. She it was who bore

testimony to the life, evil, though possibly wittingly or designedly so, of Luella Miller, and to her personal

appearance. When this old woman spokeand she had the gift of description, although her thoughts were

clothed in the rude vernacular of her native villageone could seem to see Luella Miller as she had really

looked. According to this woman, Lydia Anderson by name, Luella Miller had been a beauty of a type rather

unusual in New England. She had been a slight, pliant sort of creature, as ready with a strong yielding to fate

and as unbreakable as a willow. She had glimmering lengths of straight, fair hair, which she wore softly

looped round a long, lovely face. She had blue eyes full of soft pleading, little slender, clinging hands, and a

"Luella Miller used to sit in a way nobody else could if they sat up and studied a week of Sundays," said

Lydia Anderson, "and it was a sight to see her walk. If one of them willows over there on the edge of the

brook could start up and get its roots free of the ground, and move off, it would go just the way Luella Miller

used to. She had a green shot silk she used to wear, too, and a hat with green ribbon streamers, and a lace veil

blowing across her face and out sideways, and a green ribbon flyin' from her waist. That was what she came

out bride in when she married Erastus Miller. Her name before she was married was Hill. There was always a

sight of "l's" in her name, married or single. Erastus Miller was good lookin', too, better lookin' than Luella.

Sometimes I used to think that Luella wa'n't so handsome after all. Erastus just about worshiped her. I used to

know him pretty well. He lived next door to me, and we went to school together. Folks used to say he was

waitin' on me, but he wa'n't. I never thought he was except once or twice when he said things that some girls

might have suspected meant somethin'. That was before Luella came here to teach the district school. It was

funny how she came to get it, for folks said she hadn't any education, and that one of the big girls, Lottie

Henderson, used to do all the teachin' for her, while she sat back and did embroidery work on a cambric

pockethandkerchief. Lottie Henderson was a real smart girl, a splendid scholar, and she just set her eyes by

Luella, as all the girls did. Lottie would have made a real smart woman, but she died when Luella had been

here about a yearjust faded away and died: nobody knew what aided her. She dragged herself to that

schoolhouse and helped Luella teach till the very last minute. The committee all knew how Luella didn't do

much of the work herself, but they winked at it. It wa'n't long after Lottie died that Erastus married her. I

always thought he hurried it up because she wa'n't fit to teach. One of the big boys used to help her after

Lottie died, but he hadn't much government, and the school didn't do very well, and Luella might have had to

give it up, for the committee couldn't have shut their eyes to things much longer. The boy that helped her was

a real honest, innocent sort of fellow, and he was a good scholar, too. Folks said he overstudied, and that was

the reason he was took crazy the year after Luella married, but I don't know. And I don't know what made

Erastus Miller go into consumption of the blood the year after he was married: consumption wa'n't in his

family. He just grew weaker and weaker, and went almost bent double when he tried to wait on Luella, and

he spoke feeble, like an old man. He worked terrible hard till the last trying to save up a little to leave Luella.

I've seen him out in the worst storms on a woodsledhe used to cut and sell woodand he was hunched

up on top lookin' more dead than alive. Once I couldn't stand it: I went over and helped him pitch some wood

on the cartI was always strong in my arms. I wouldn't stop for all he told me to, and I guess he was glad

enough for the help. That was only a week before he died. He fell on the kitchen floor while he was gettin'

breakfast. He always got the breakfast and let Luella lay abed. He did all the sweepin' and the washin' and the

ironin' and most of the cookin'. He couldn't bear to have Luella lift her finger, and she let him do for her. She

lived like a queen for all the work she did. She didn't even do her sewin'. She said it made her shoulder ache

to sew, and poor Erastus's sister Lily used to do all her sewin'. She wa'n't able to, either; she was never strong

in her back, but she did it beautifully. She had to, to suit Luella, she was so dreadful particular. I never saw

anythin' like the fagottin' and hemstitchin' that Lily Miller did for Luella. She made all Luella's weddin' outfit,

and that green silk dress, after Maria Babbit cut it. Maria she cut it for nothin', and she did a lot more cuttin'

and fittin' for nothin' for Luella, too. Lily Miller went to live with Luella after Erastus died. She gave up her

home, though she was real attached to it and wa'n't a mite afraid to stay alone. She rented it and she went to

Then this old woman, Lydia Anderson, who remembered Luella Miller, would go on to relate the story of

Lily Miller. It seemed that on the removal of Lily Miller to the house of her dead brother, to live with his

widow, the village people first began to talk. This Lily Miller had been hardly past her first youth, and a most

robust and blooming woman, rosycheeked, with curls of strong, black hair overshadowing round, candid

temples and bright dark eyes. It was not six months after she had taken up her residence with her

sisterinlaw that her rosy colour faded and her pretty curves became wan hollows. White shadows began to

show in the black rings of her hair, and the light died out of her eyes, her features sharpened, and there were

pathetic lines at her mouth, which yet wore always an expression of utter sweetness and even happiness. She

was devoted to her sister; there was no doubt that she loved her with her whole heart, and was perfectly

content in her service. It was her sole anxiety lest she should die and leave her alone.

"The way Lily Miller used to talk about Luella was enough to make you mad and enough to make you cry,"

said Lydia Anderson. "I've been in there sometimes toward the last when she was too feeble to cook and

carried her some blancmange or custardsomethin' I thought she might relish, and she'd thank me, and

when I asked her how she was, say she felt better than she did yesterday, and asked me if I didn't think she

looked better, dreadful pitiful, and say poor Luella had an awful time takin' care of her and doin' the

workshe wa'n't strong enough to do anythin'when all the time Luella wa'n't liftin' her finger and poor

Lily didn't get any care except what the neighbours gave her, and Luella eat up everythin' that was carried in

for Lily. I had it real straight that she did. Luella used to just sit and cry and do nothin'. She did act real fond

of Lily, and she pined away considerable, too. There was those that thought she'd go into a decline herself.

But after Lily died, her Aunt Abby Mixter came, and then Luella picked up and grew as fat and rosy as ever.

But poor Aunt Abby begun to droop just the way Lily had, and I guess somebody wrote to her married

daughter, Mrs. Sam Abbot, who lived in Barre, for she wrote her mother that she must leave right away and

come and make her a visit, but Aunt Abby wouldn't go. I can see her now. She was a real goodlookin'

woman, tall and large, with a big, square face and a high forehead that looked of itself kind of benevolent and

good. She just tended out on Luella as if she had been a baby, and when her married daughter sent for her she

wouldn't stir one inch. She'd always thought a lot of her daughter, too, but she said Luella needed her and her

married daughter didn't. Her daughter kept writin' and writin', but it didn't do any good. Finally she came, and

when she saw how bad her mother looked, she broke down and cried and all but went on her knees to have

her come away. She spoke her mind out to Luella, too. She told her that she'd killed her husband and

everybody that had anythin' to do with her, and she'd thank her to leave her mother alone. Luella went into

hysterics, and Aunt Abby was so frightened that she called me after her daughter went. Mrs. Sam Abbot she

went away fairly cryin' out loud in the buggy, the neighbours heard her, and well she might, for she never

saw her mother again alive. I went in that night when Aunt Abby called for me, standin' in the door with her

little greenchecked shawl over her head. I can see her now. 'Do come over here, Miss Anderson,' she sung

out, kind of gasping for breath. I didn't stop for anythin'. I put over as fast as I could, and when I got there,

there was Luella laughin' and cryin' all together, and Aunt Abby trying to hush her, and all the time she

herself was white as a sheet and shakin' so she could hardly stand. 'For the land sakes, Mrs. Mixter,' says I,

"'Oh, there ain't anythin' the matter with me,' says she. Then she went on talkin' to Luella. 'There, there, don't,

don't, poor little lamb,' says she. 'Aunt Abby is here. She ain't goin' away and leave you. Don't, poor little

"'Do leave her with me, Mrs. Mixter, and you get back to bed,' says I, for Aunt Abby had been layin' down

"'I'm well enough,' says she. 'Don't you think she had better have the doctor, Miss Anderson?'

"'The doctor,' says I, 'I think YOU had better have the doctor. I think you need him much worse than some

folks I could mention.' And I looked right straight at Luella Miller laughin' and cryin' and goin' on as if she

was the centre of all creation. All the time she was actin' soseemed as if she was too sick to sense

anythin'she was keepin' a sharp lookout as to how we took it out of the corner of one eye. I see her. You

could never cheat me about Luella Miller. Finally I got real mad and I run home and I got a bottle of valerian

I had, and I poured some boilin' hot water on a handful of catnip, and I mixed up that catnip tea with most

half a wineglass of valerian, and I went with it over to Luella's. I marched right up to Luella, aholdin' out of

"'What iswhat is it, oh, what is it?' she sort of screeches out. Then she goes off alaughin' enough to kill.

"'Poor lamb, poor little lamb,' says Aunt Abby, standin' over her, all kind of tottery, and tryin' to bathe her

"'YOU SWALLER THIS RIGHT DOWN,' says I. And I didn't waste any ceremony. I just took hold of

Luella Miller's chin and I tipped her head back, and I caught her mouth open with laughin', and I clapped that

cup to her lips, and I fairly hollered at her: 'Swaller, swaller, swaller!' and she gulped it right down. She had

to, and I guess it did her good. Anyhow, she stopped cryin' and laughin' and let me put her to bed, and she

went to sleep like a baby inside of half an hour. That was more than poor Aunt Abby did. She lay awake all

that night and I stayed with her, though she tried not to have me; said she wa'n't sick enough for watchers.

But I stayed, and I made some good cornmeal gruel and I fed her a teaspoon every little while all night long.

It seemed to me as if she was jest dyin' from bein' all wore out. In the mornin' as soon as it was light I run

over to the Bisbees and sent Johnny Bisbee for the doctor. I told him to tell the doctor to hurry, and he come

pretty quick. Poor Aunt Abby didn't seem to know much of anythin' when he got there. You couldn't hardly

tell she breathed, she was so used up. When the doctor had gone, Luella came into the room lookin' like a

baby in her ruffled nightgown. I can see her now. Her eyes were as blue and her face all pink and white like a

blossom, and she looked at Aunt Abby in the bed sort of innocent and surprised. 'Why,' says she, 'Aunt Abby

"'Coffee,' says I. 'I guess if you have coffee this mornin' you'll make it yourself.'

"'I never made the coffee in all my life,' says she, dreadful astonished. 'Erastus always made the coffee as

long as he lived, and then Lily she made it, and then Aunt Abby made it. I don't believe I CAN make the

"'I guess she won't get up,' says I, 'sick as she is.' I was gettin' madder and madder. There was somethin' about

that little pinkandwhite thing standin' there and talkin' about coffee, when she had killed so many better

folks than she was, and had jest killed another, that made me feel 'most as if I wished somebody would up

"'Yes,' says I, 'she's sick, and she's goin' to die, and then you'll be left alone, and you'll have to do for yourself

and wait on yourself, or do without things.' I don't know but I was sort of hard, but it was the truth, and if I

was any harder than Luella Miller had been I'll give up. I ain't never been sorry that I said it. Well, Luella, she

up and had hysterics again at that, and I jest let her have 'em. All I did was to bundle her into the room on the

other side of the entry where Aunt Abby couldn't hear her, if she wa'n't past itI don't know but she

wasand set her down hard in a chair and told her not to come back into the other room, and she minded.

She had her hysterics in there till she got tired. When she found out that nobody was comin' to coddle her and

do for her she stopped. At least I suppose she did. I had all I could do with poor Aunt Abby tryin' to keep the

breath of life in her. The doctor had told me that she was dreadful low, and give me some very strong

medicine to give to her in drops real often, and told me real particular about the nourishment. Well, I did as

he told me real faithful till she wa'n't able to swaller any longer. Then I had her daughter sent for. I had begun

to realize that she wouldn't last any time at all. I hadn't realized it before, though I spoke to Luella the way I

did. The doctor he came, and Mrs. Sam Abbot, but when she got there it was too late; her mother was dead.

Aunt Abby's daughter just give one look at her mother layin' there, then she turned sort of sharp and sudden

"'She's out in the kitchen,' says I. 'She's too nervous to see folks die. She's afraid it will make her sick.'

"The Doctor he speaks up then. He was a young man. Old Doctor Park had died the year before, and this was

a young fellow just out of college. 'Mrs. Miller is not strong,' says he, kind of severe, 'and she is quite right in

"'You are another, young man; she's got her pretty claw on you,' thinks I, but I didn't say anythin' to him. I

just said over to Mrs. Sam Abbot that Luella was in the kitchen, and Mrs. Sam Abbot she went out there, and

I went, too, and I never heard anythin' like the way she talked to Luella Miller. I felt pretty hard to Luella

myself, but this was more than I ever would have dared to say. Luella she was too scared to go into hysterics.

She jest flopped. She seemed to jest shrink away to nothin' in that kitchen chair, with Mrs. Sam Abbot

standin' over her and talkin' and tellin' her the truth. I guess the truth was most too much for her and no

mistake, because Luella presently actually did faint away, and there wa'n't any sham about it, the way I

always suspected there was about them hysterics. She fainted dead away and we had to lay her flat on the

floor, and the Doctor he came runnin' out and he said somethin' about a weak heart dreadful fierce to Mrs.

Sam Abbot, but she wa'n't a mite scared. She faced him jest as white as even Luella was layin' there lookin'

"'Weak heart,' says she, 'weak heart; weak fiddlesticks! There ain't nothin' weak about that woman. She's got

strength enough to hang onto other folks till she kills 'em. Weak? It was my poor mother that was weak: this

"But the Doctor he didn't pay much attention. He was bendin' over Luella layin' there with her yellow hair all

streamin' and her pretty pinkandwhite face all pale, and her blue eyes like stars gone out, and he was

holdin' onto her hand and smoothin' her forehead, and tellin' me to get the brandy in Aunt Abby's room, and I

was sure as I wanted to be that Luella had got somebody else to hang onto, now Aunt Abby was gone, and I

thought of poor Erastus Miller, and I sort of pitied the poor young Doctor, led away by a pretty face, and I

"I waited till Aunt Abby had been dead and buried about a month, and the Doctor was goin' to see Luella

steady and folks were beginnin' to talk; then one evenin', when I knew the Doctor had been called out of town

and wouldn't be round, I went over to Luella's. I found her all dressed up in a blue muslin with white polka

dots on it, and her hair curled jest as pretty, and there wa'n't a young girl in the place could compare with her.

There was somethin' about Luella Miller seemed to draw the heart right out of you, but she didn't draw it out

of ME. She was settin' rocking in the chair by her sittin'room window, and Maria Brown had gone home.

Maria Brown had been in to help her, or rather to do the work, for Luella wa'n't helped when she didn't do

anythin'. Maria Brown was real capable and she didn't have any ties; she wa'n't married, and lived alone, so

she'd offered. I couldn't see why she should do the work any more than Luella; she wa'n't any too strong; but

she seemed to think she could and Luella seemed to think so, too, so she went over and did all the

workwashed, and ironed, and baked, while Luella sat and rocked. Maria didn't live long afterward. She

began to fade away just the same fashion the others had. Well, she was warned, but she acted real mad when

folks said anythin': said Luella was a poor, abused woman, too delicate to help herself, and they'd ought to be

ashamed, and if she died helpin' them that couldn't help themselves she wouldand she did.

"'I s'pose Maria has gone home,' says I to Luella, when I had gone in and sat down opposite her.

"'Yes, Maria went half an hour ago, after she had got supper and washed the dishes,' says Luella, in her pretty

"'I suppose she has got a lot of work to do in her own house tonight,' says I, kind of bitter, but that was all

thrown away on Luella Miller. It seemed to her right that other folks that wa'n't any better able than she was

herself should wait on her, and she couldn't get it through her head that anybody should think it WA'N'T

"'Yes,' says Luella, real sweet and pretty, 'yes, she said she had to do her washin' tonight. She has let it go

"'Why don't she stay home and do her washin' instead of comin' over here and doin' YOUR work, when you

"Then Luella she looked at me like a baby who has a rattle shook at it. She sort of laughed as innocent as you

please. 'Oh, I can't do the work myself, Miss Anderson,' says she. 'I never did. Maria HAS to do it.'

"Then I spoke out: 'Has to do it I' says I. 'Has to do it!' She don't have to do it, either. Maria Brown has her

own home and enough to live on. She ain't beholden to you to come over here and slave for you and kill

"Luella she jest set and stared at me for all the world like a dollbaby that was so abused that it was comin' to

"'Yes,' says I, 'she's killin' herself. She's goin' to die just the way Erastus did, and Lily, and your Aunt Abby.

You're killin' her jest as you did them. I don't know what there is about you, but you seem to bring a curse,'

says I. 'You kill everybody that is fool enough to care anythin' about you and do for you.'

"'And Maria ain't the only one you're goin' to kill,' says I. 'You're goin' to kill Doctor Malcom before you're

"Then a red colour came flamin' all over her face. 'I ain't goin' to kill him, either,' says she, and she begun to

"'Yes, you BE!' says I. Then I spoke as I had never spoke before. You see, I felt it on account of Erastus. I

told her that she hadn't any business to think of another man after she'd been married to one that had died for

her: that she was a dreadful woman; and she was, that's true enough, but sometimes I have wondered lately if

she knew itif she wa'n't like a baby with scissors in its hand cuttin' everybody without knowin' what it was

"Luella she kept gettin' paler and paler, and she never took her eyes off my face. There was somethin' awful

about the way she looked at me and never spoke one word. After awhile I quit talkin' and I went home. I

watched that night, but her lamp went out before nine o'clock, and when Doctor Malcom came drivin' past

and sort of slowed up he see there wa'n't any light and he drove along. I saw her sort of shy out of meetin' the

next Sunday, too, so he shouldn't go home with her, and I begun to think mebbe she did have some

conscience after all. It was only a week after that that Maria Brown diedsort of sudden at the last, though

everybody had seen it was comin'. Well, then there was a good deal of feelin' and pretty dark whispers. Folks

said the days of witchcraft had come again, and they were pretty shy of Luella. She acted sort of offish to the

Doctor and he didn't go there, and there wa'n't anybody to do anythin' for her. I don't know how she DID get

along. I wouldn't go in there and offer to help hernot because I was afraid of dyin' like the rest, but I

thought she was just as well able to do her own work as I was to do it for her, and I thought it was about time

that she did it and stopped killin' other folks. But it wa'n't very long before folks began to say that Luella

herself was goin' into a decline jest the way her husband, and Lily, and Aunt Abby and the others had, and I

saw myself that she looked pretty bad. I used to see her goin' past from the store with a bundle as if she could

hardly crawl, but I remembered how Erastus used to wait and 'tend when he couldn't hardly put one foot

"But at last one afternoon I saw the Doctor come drivin' up like mad with his medicine chest, and Mrs. Babbit

"'I'd offer to go in and nurse her,' says she, 'but I've got my children to consider, and mebbe it ain't true what

"I didn't say anythin', but I considered how she had been Erastus's wife and how he had set his eyes by her,

and I made up my mind to go in the next mornin', unless she was better, and see what I could do; but the next

mornin' I see her at the window, and pretty soon she came steppin' out as spry as you please, and a little while

afterward Mrs. Babbit came in and told me that the Doctor had got a girl from out of town, a Sarah Jones, to

come there, and she said she was pretty sure that the Doctor was goin' to marry Luella.

"I saw him kiss her in the door that night myself, and I knew it was true. The woman came that afternoon,

and the way she flew around was a caution. I don't believe Luella had swept since Maria died. She swept and

dusted, and washed and ironed; wet clothes and dusters and carpets were flyin' over there all day, and every

time Luella set her foot out when the Doctor wa'n't there there was that Sarah Jones helpin' of her up and

"Well, everybody knew that Luella and the Doctor were goin' to be married, but it wa'n't long before they

began to talk about his lookin' so poorly, jest as they had about the others; and they talked about Sarah Jones,

"Well, the Doctor did die, and he wanted to be married first, so as to leave what little he had to Luella, but he

died before the minister could get there, and Sarah Jones died a week afterward.

"Well, that wound up everything for Luella Miller. Not another soul in the whole town would lift a finger for

her. There got to be a sort of panic. Then she began to droop in good earnest. She used to have to go to the

store herself, for Mrs. Babbit was afraid to let Tommy go for her, and I've seen her goin' past and stoppin'

every two or three steps to rest. Well, I stood it as long as I could, but one day I see her comin' with her arms

full and stoppin' to lean against the Babbit fence, and I run out and took her bundles and carried them to her

house. Then I went home and never spoke one word to her though she called after me dreadful kind of pitiful.

Well, that night I was taken sick with a chill, and I was sick as I wanted to be for two weeks. Mrs. Babbit had

seen me run out to help Luella and she came in and told me I was goin' to die on account of it. I didn't know

"That last two weeks Luella she had a dreadful hard time, I guess. She was pretty sick, and as near as I could

make out nobody dared go near her. I don't know as she was really needin' anythin' very much, for there was

enough to eat in her house and it was warm weather, and she made out to cook a little flour gruel every day, I

know, but I guess she had a hard time, she that had been so petted and done for all her life.

"When I got so I could go out, I went over there one morning. Mrs. Babbit had just come in to say she hadn't

seen any smoke and she didn't know but it was somebody's duty to go in, but she couldn't help thinkin' of her

children, and I got right up, though I hadn't been out of the house for two weeks, and I went in there, and

"She lasted all that day and into the night. But I sat there after the new doctor had gone away. Nobody else

dared to go there. It was about midnight that I left her for a minute to run home and get some medicine I had

"It was a full moon that night, and just as I started out of my door to cross the street back to Luella's, I

Lydia Anderson at this juncture always said with a certain defiance that she did not expect to be believed, and

"I saw what I saw, and I know I saw it, and I will swear on my death bed that I saw it. I saw Luella Miller and

Erastus Miller, and Lily, and Aunt Abby, and Maria, and the Doctor, and Sarah, all goin' out of her door, and

all but Luella shone white in the moonlight, and they were all helpin' her along till she seemed to fairly fly in

the midst of them. Then it all disappeared. I stood a minute with my heart poundin', then I went over there. I

thought of goin' for Mrs. Babbit, but I thought she'd be afraid. So I went alone, though I knew what had

This was the story that the old woman, Lydia Anderson, told, but the sequel was told by the people who

Lydia Anderson died when she was eightyseven. She had continued wonderfully hale and hearty for one of

One bright moonlight evening she was sitting beside a window in her parlour when she made a sudden

exclamation, and was out of the house and across the street before the neighbour who was taking care of her

could stop her. She followed as fast as possible and found Lydia Anderson stretched on the ground before the

The next night there was a red gleam of fire athwart the moonlight and the old house of Luella Miller was

burned to the ground. Nothing is now left of it except a few old cellar stones and a lilac bush, and in summer

a helpless trail of morning glories among the weeds, which might be considered emblematic of Luella herself.

"That schoolteacher from Acton is coming today," said the elder Miss Gill, Sophia.

Amanda looked at her sister with an expression of mingled doubt and terror. "You don't suppose she

"Would what?" demanded Sophia, sharply. She was more incisive than her sister. Both were below the

medium height, and stout, but Sophia was firm where Amanda was flabby. Amanda wore a baggy old muslin

(it was a hot day), and Sophia was uncompromisingly hooked up in a starched and boned cambric over her

"I didn't know but she would object to sleeping in that room, as long as Aunt Harriet died there such a little

"Well!" said Sophia, "of all the silly notions! If you are going to pick out rooms in this house where nobody

has died, for the boarders, you'll have your hands full. Grandfather Ackley had seven children; four of them

died here to my certain knowledge, besides grandfather and grandmother. I think Greatgrandmother Ackley,

grandfather's mother, died here, too; she must have; and Greatgrandfather Ackley, and grandfather's

unmarried sister, Greataunt Fanny Ackley. I don't believe there's a room nor a bed in this house that

"Well, I suppose I am silly to think of it, and she had better go in there," said Amanda.

"I know she had. The northeast room is small and hot, and she's stout and likely to feel the heat, and she's

saved money and is able to board out summers, and maybe she'll come here another year if she's well

accommodated," said Sophia. "Now I guess you'd better go in there and see if any dust has settled on

anything since it was cleaned, and open the west windows and let the sun in, while I see to that cake."

Amanda went to her task in the southwest chamber while her sister stepped heavily down the back stairs on

"It seems to me you had better open the bed while you air and dust, then make it up again," she called back.

Nobody knew how this elderly woman with the untrammeled imagination of a child dreaded to enter the

southwest chamber, and yet she could not have told why she had the dread. She had entered and occupied

rooms which had been once tenanted by persons now dead. The room which had been hers in the little house

in which she and her sister had lived before coming here had been her dead mother's. She had never reflected

upon the fact with anything but loving awe and reverence. There had never been any fear. But this was

different. She entered and her heart beat thickly in her ears. Her hands were cold. The room was a very large

one. The four windows, two facing south, two west, were closed, the blinds also. The room was in a film of

green gloom. The furniture loomed out vaguely. The gilt frame of a blurred old engraving on the wall caught

Amanda crossed the room, opened with a straining motion of her thin back and shoulders one of the west

windows, and threw back the blind. Then the room revealed itself an apartment full of an aged and worn but

no less valid state. Pieces of old mahogany swelled forth; a peacockpatterned chintz draped the bedstead.

This chintz also covered a great easy chair which had been the favourite seat of the former occupant of the

room. The closet door stood ajar. Amanda noticed that with wonder. There was a glimpse of purple drapery

floating from a peg inside the closet. Amanda went across and took down the garment hanging there. She

wondered how her sister had happened to leave it when she cleaned the room. It was an old loose gown

which had belonged to her aunt. She took it down, shuddering, and closed the closet door after a fearful

glance into its dark depths. It was a long closet with a strong odour of lovage. The Aunt Harriet had had a

habit of eating lovage and had carried it constantly in her pocket. There was very likely some of the pleasant

root in the pocket of the musty purple gown which Amanda threw over the easy chair.

Amanda perceived the odour with a start as if before an actual presence. Odour seems in a sense a vital part

of a personality. It can survive the flesh to which it has clung like a persistent shadow, seeming to have in

itself something of the substance of that to which it pertained. Amanda was always conscious of this

fragrance of lovage as she tidied the room. She dusted the heavy mahogany pieces punctiliously after she had

opened the bed as her sister had directed. She spread fresh towels over the washstand and the bureau; she

made the bed. Then she thought to take the purple gown from the easy chair and carry it to the garret and put

it in the trunk with the other articles of the dead woman's wardrobe which had been packed away there; BUT

Amanda Gill was not a woman of strong convictions even as to her own actions. She directly thought that

possibly she had been mistaken and had not removed it from the closet. She glanced at the closet door and

saw with surprise that it was open, and she had thought she had closed it, but she instantly was not sure of

that. So she entered the closet and looked for the purple gown. IT WAS NOT THERE!

Amanda Gill went feebly out of the closet and looked at the easy chair again. The purple gown was not there!

She looked wildly around the room. She went down on her trembling knees and peered under the bed, she

opened the bureau drawers, she looked again in the closet. Then she stood in the middle of the floor and fairly

There is a limit at which selfrefutation must stop in any sane person. Amanda Gill had reached it. She knew

that she had seen that purple gown in that closet; she knew that she had removed it and put it on the easy

chair. She also knew that she had not taken it out of the room. She felt a curious sense of being inverted

mentally. It was as if all her traditions and laws of life were on their heads. Never in her simple record had

any garment not remained where she had placed it unless removed by some palpable human agency.

Then the thought occurred to her that possibly her sister Sophia might have entered the room unobserved

while her back was turned and removed the dress. A sensation of relief came over her. Her blood seemed to

She hurried out and downstairs into the kitchen where Sophia was making cake, stirring with splendid

circular sweeps of a wooden spoon a creamy yellow mass. She looked up as her sister entered.

"Yes," replied Amanda. Then she hesitated. A sudden terror overcame her. It did not seem as if it were at all

probable that Sophia had left that foamy cake mixture a second to go to Aunt Harriet's chamber and remove

"Well," said Sophia, "if you have got that done I wish you would take hold and string those beans. The first

Amanda moved toward the pan of beans on the table, then she looked at her sister.

"Up in Aunt Harriet's room? Of course I didn't. I couldn't leave this cake without having it fall. You know

Suddenly she realized that she could not tell her sister what had happened, for before the utter absurdity of

the whole thing her belief in her own reason quailed. She knew what Sophia would say if she told her. She

She resolved that she would never tell Sophia. She dropped into a chair and begun shelling the beans with

"Yes, there is, too! You are as white as a sheet, and your hands are shaking so you can hardly string those

"Yes, you do know what I mean, too; you needn't pretend you don't. Why did you ask me if I had been in that

"I wondered if you'd noticed how it had leaked in on the paper over by the bureau, that last rain," said she.

"I shouldn't think it could have been very hot in that room when it had been shut up so long," said Sophia.

She was evidently not satisfied, but then the grocer came to the door and the matter dropped.

For the next hour the two women were very busy. They kept no servant. When they had come into possession

of this fine old place by the death of their aunt it had seemed a doubtful blessing. There was not a cent with

which to pay for repairs and taxes and insurance, except the twelve hundred dollars which they had obtained

from the sale of the little house in which they had been born and lived all their lives. There had been a

division in the old Ackley family years before. One of the daughters had married against her mother's wish

and had been disinherited. She had married a poor man by the name of Gill, and shared his humble lot in

sight of her former home and her sister and mother living in prosperity, until she had borne three daughters;

The mother and the elder sister had been pitiless to the last. Neither had ever spoken to her since she left her

The three daughters of the disinherited sister had lived quiet and poor, but not actually needy lives. Jane, the

middle daughter, had married, and died in less than a year. Amanda and Sophia had taken the girl baby she

left when the father married again. Sophia had taught a primary school for many years; she had saved enough

to buy the little house in which they lived. Amanda had crocheted lace, and embroidered flannel, and made

tidies and pincushions, and had earned enough for her clothes and the child's, little Flora Scott.

Their father, William Gill, had died before they were thirty, and now in their late middle life had come the

death of the aunt to whom they had never spoken, although they had often seen her, who had lived in solitary

state in the old Ackley mansion until she was more than eighty. There had been no will, and they were the

only heirs with the exception of young Flora Scott, the daughter of the dead sister.

"It will be a splendid thing for her; she will have enough to live on when we are gone," Sophia said.

She had promptly decided what was to be done. The small house was to be sold, and they were to move into

the old Ackley house and take boarders to pay for its keeping. She scouted the idea of selling it. She had an

enormous family pride. She had always held her head high when she had walked past that fine old mansion,

the cradle of her race, which she was forbidden to enter. She was unmoved when the lawyer who was

advising her disclosed to her the fact that Harriet Ackley had used every cent of the Ackley money.

"I realize that we have to work," said she, "but my sister and I have determined to keep the place."

That was the end of the discussion. Sophia and Amanda Gill had been living in the old Ackley house a

fortnight, and they had three boarders: an elderly widow with a comfortable income, a young

congregationalist clergyman, and the middleaged single woman who had charge of the village library. Now

the schoolteacher from Acton, Miss Louisa Stark, was expected for the summer, and would make four.

Sophia considered that they were comfortably provided for. Her wants and her sister's were very few, and

even the niece, although a young girl, had small expenses, since her wardrobe was supplied for years to come

from that of the deceased aunt. There were stored away in the garret of the Ackley house enough voluminous

black silks and satins and bombazines to keep her clad in somber richness for years to come.

Flora was a very gentle girl, with large, serious blue eyes, a seldomsmiling, pretty mouth, and smooth flaxen

She came home soon now with her parcels of sugar and tea from the grocer's. She entered the kitchen gravely

and deposited them on the table by which her Aunt Amanda was seated stringing beans. Flora wore an

obsolete turbanshaped hat of black straw which had belonged to the dead aunt; it set high like a crown,

revealing her forehead. Her dress was an ancient purpleandwhite print, too long and too large except over

"You had better take off your hat, Flora," said Sophia. She turned suddenly to Amanda. "Did you fill the

waterpitcher in that chamber for the schoolteacher?" she asked severely. She was quite sure that Amanda

Amanda blushed and started guiltily. "I declare, I don't believe I did," said she.

"Flora, you go up to the room that was your Greataunt Harriet's, and take the waterpitcher off the

washstand and fill it with water. Be real careful, and don't break the pitcher, and don't spill the water."

"In THAT chamber?" asked Flora. She spoke very quietly, but her face changed a little.

Flora went, and her light footstep was heard on the stairs. Very soon she returned with the blueandwhite

"Now be careful and not spill it," said Sophia as she went out of the room carrying it gingerly.

Amanda gave a timidly curious glance at her; she wondered if she had seen the purple gown.

Then she started, for the village stagecoach was seen driving around to the front of the house. The house

"Here, Amanda, you look better than I do; you go and meet her," said Sophia. "I'll just put the cake in the pan

Amanda removed her apron hastily and obeyed. Sophia hurried with her cake, pouring it into the bakingtins.

She had just put it in the oven, when the door opened and Flora entered carrying the blue waterpitcher.

"For the land sake, she hasn't used all that great pitcherful of water so quick?"

Her high, childish forehead was contracted slightly with a puzzled frown as she looked at her aunt.

"Didn't I see you filling the pitcher with water not ten minutes ago, I want to know?"

"Did you carry that pitcherful of water up to that room and set it on the washstand?"

"Now, Flora Scott, I want the truth! Did you fill that pitcher with water and carry it up there, and wasn't there

"Let me see that pitcher." Sophia examined the pitcher. It was not only perfectly dry from top to bottom, but

even a little dusty. She turned severely on the young girl. "That shows," said she, "you did not fill the pitcher

at all. You let the water run at the side because you didn't want to carry it upstairs. I am ashamed of you. It's

The young girl's face broke up suddenly into piteous confusion, and her blue eyes became filmy with tears.

"I did fill the pitcher, honest," she faltered, "I did, Aunt Sophia. You ask Aunt Amanda."

"I'll ask nobody. This pitcher is proof enough. Water don't go off and leave the pitcher dusty on the inside if it

was put in ten minutes ago. Now you fill that pitcher full quick, and you carry it upstairs, and if you spill a

Flora filled the pitcher, with the tears falling over her cheeks. She sniveled softly as she went out, balancing it

"Stop crying," said she sharply; "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What do you suppose Miss Louisa

Stark will think. No water in her pitcher in the first place, and then you come back crying as if you didn't

In spite of herself, Sophia's voice was soothing. She was very fond of the girl. She followed her up the stairs

to the chamber where Miss Louisa Stark was waiting for the water to remove the soil of travel. She had

removed her bonnet, and its tuft of red geraniums lightened the obscurity of the mahogany dresser. She had

placed her little beaded cape carefully on the bed. She was replying to a tremulous remark of Amanda's, who

was nearly fainting from the new mystery of the waterpitcher, that it was warm and she suffered a good deal

Louisa Stark was stout and solidly built. She was much larger than either of the Gill sisters. She was a

masterly woman inured to command from years of schoolteaching. She carried her swelling bulk with

majesty; even her face, moist and red with the heat, lost nothing of its dignity of expression.

She was standing in the middle of the floor with an air which gave the effect of her standing upon an

elevation. She turned when Sophia and Flora, carrying the waterpitcher, entered.

Sophia advanced, shook hands with Miss Louisa Stark and bade her welcome and hoped she would like her

room. Then she moved toward the closet. "There is a nice large closet in this roomthe best closet in the

The closet door was ajar, and a purple garment seemed suddenly to swing into view as if impelled by some

"Why, here is something left in this closet," Sophia said in a mortified tone. "I thought all those things had

She pulled down the garment with a jerk, and as she did so Amanda passed her in a weak rush for the door.

"I am afraid your sister is not well," said the schoolteacher from Acton. "She looked very pale when you

took that dress down. I noticed it at once. Hadn't you better go and see what the matter is? She may be going

"She is not subject to fainting spells," replied Sophia, but she followed Amanda.

She found her in the room which they occupied together, lying on the bed, very pale and gasping. She leaned

"I guess it was that green apple pie you ate this noon," said Sophia. "I declare, what did I do with that dress of

Aunt Harriet's? I guess if you feel better I'll just run and get it and take it up garret. I'll stop in here again

when I come down. You'd better lay still. Flora can bring you up a cup of tea. I wouldn't try to eat any

Sophia's tone as she left the room was full of loving concern. Presently she returned; she looked disturbed,

"I want to know," said she, looking sharply and quickly around, "if I brought that purple dress in here, after

"I must have. It isn't in that chamber, nor the closet. You aren't lying on it, are you?"

Presently Amanda heard her sister's heavy step on the garret stairs. Then she returned with a queer defiant

"I carried it up garret, after all, and put it in the trunk," said, she. "I declare, I forgot it. I suppose your being

faint sort of put it out of my head. There it was, folded up just as nice, right where I put it."

Sophia's mouth was set; her eyes upon her sister's scared, agitated face were full of hard challenge.

"I must go right down and see to that cake," said Sophia, going out of the room. "If you don't feel well, you

Amanda looked after her. She knew that Sophia had not put that purple dress of her dead Aunt Harriet in the

Meantime Miss Louisa Stark was settling herself in the southwest chamber. She unpacked her trunk and hung

her dresses carefully in the closet. She filled the bureau drawers' with nicely folded linen and small articles of

dress. She was a very punctilious woman. She put on a black India silk dress with purple flowers. She

combed her grayishblond hair in smooth ridges back from her broad forehead. She pinned her lace at her

throat with a brooch, very handsome, although somewhat obsoletea bunch of pearl grapes on black onyx,

set in gold filagree. She had purchased it several years ago with a considerable portion of the stipend from her

As she surveyed herself in the little swing mirror surmounting the oldfashioned mahogany bureau she

suddenly bent forward and looked closely at the brooch. It seemed to her that something was wrong with it.

As she looked she became sure. Instead of the familiar bunch of pearl grapes on the black onyx, she saw a

knot of blonde and black hair under glass surrounded by a border of twisted gold. She felt a thrill of horror,

though she could not tell why. She unpinned the brooch, and it was her own familiar one, the pearl grapes and

the onyx. "How very foolish I am," she thought. She thrust the pin in the laces at her throat and again looked

at herself in the glass, and there it was againthe knot of blond and black hair and the twisted gold.

Louisa Stark looked at her own large, firm face above the brooch and it was full of terror and dismay which

were new to it. She straightway began to wonder if there could be anything wrong with her mind. She

remembered that an aunt of her mother's had been insane. A sort of fury with herself possessed her. She

stared at the brooch in the glass with eyes at once angry and terrified. Then she removed it again and there

was her own old brooch. Finally she thrust the gold pin through the lace again, fastened it and turning a

At the supper table she met the other boardersthe elderly widow, the young clergyman and the

middleaged librarian. She viewed the elderly widow with reserve, the clergyman with respect, the

middleaged librarian with suspicion. The latter wore a very youthful shirtwaist, and her hair in a girlish

fashion which the schoolteacher, who twisted hers severely from the straining roots at the nape of her neck to

the small, smooth coil at the top, condemned as straining after effects no longer hers by right.

The librarian, who had a quick acridness of manner, addressed her, asking what room she had, and asked the

second time in spite of the schoolteacher's evident reluctance to hear her. She even, since she sat next to her,

The librarian, whose name was Eliza Lippincott, turned abruptly to Miss Amanda Gill, over whose delicate

Amanda cast a terrified glance at her sister, who was serving a second plate of pudding for the minister.

"That's what I thought," said the librarian with a certain triumph. "I calculated that must be the room she died

in, for it's the best room in the house, and you haven't put anybody in it before. Somehow the room that

anybody has died in lately is generally the last room that anybody is put in. I suppose YOU are so

strongminded you don't object to sleeping in a room where anybody died a few weeks ago?" she inquired of

The young minister looked up from his pudding. He was very spiritual, but he had had poor pickings in his

previous boarding place, and he could not help a certain abstract enjoyment over Miss Gill's cooking.

"You would certainly not be afraid, Miss Lippincott?" he remarked, with his gentle, almost caressing

inflection of tone. "You do not for a minute believe that a higher power would allow any manifestation on the

part of a disembodied spiritwho we trust is in her heavenly hometo harm one of His servants?"

"Oh, Mr. Dunn, of course not," replied Eliza Lippincott with a blush. "Of course not. I never meant to

"I could not believe you did," said the minister gently. He was very young, but he already had a wrinkle of

permanent anxiety between his eyes and a smile of permanent ingratiation on his lips. The lines of the smile

"Of course dear Miss Harriet Gill was a professing Christian," remarked the widow, "and I don't suppose a

professing Christian would come back and scare folks if she could. I wouldn't be a mite afraid to sleep in that

room; I'd rather have it than the one I've got. If I was afraid to sleep in a room where a good woman died, I

wouldn't tell of it. If I saw things or heard things I'd think the fault must be with my own guilty conscience."

Then she turned to Miss Stark. "Any time you feel timid in that room I'm ready and willing to change with

"Thank you; I have no desire to change. I am perfectly satisfied with my room," replied Miss Stark with

"Well," said she, "any time, if you should feel timid, you know what to do. I've got a real nice room; it faces

east and gets the morning sun, but it isn't so nice as yours, according to my way of thinking. I'd rather take

my chances any day in a room anybody had died in than in one that was hot in summer. I'm more afraid of a

Miss Sophia Gill, who had not spoken one word, but whose mouth had become more and more rigidly

compressed, suddenly rose from the table, forcing the minister to leave a little pudding, at which he glanced

Miss Louisa Stark did not sit down in the parlour with the other boarders. She went straight to her room. She

felt tired after her journey, and meditated a loose wrapper and writing a few letters quietly before she went to

bed. Then, too, she was conscious of a feeling that if she delayed, the going there at all might assume more

terrifying proportions. She was full of defiance against herself and her own lurking weakness.

So she went resolutely and entered the southwest chamber. There was through the room a soft twilight. She

could dimly discern everything, the white satin scrollwork on the wall paper and the white counterpane on

the bed being most evident. Consequently both arrested her attention first. She saw against the wallpaper

directly facing the door the waist of her best black satin dress hung over a picture.

"That is very strange," she said to herself, and again a thrill of vague horror came over her.

She knew, or thought she knew, that she had put that black satin dress waist away nicely folded between

She took down the black waist and laid it on the bed preparatory to folding it, but when she attempted to do

so she discovered that the two sleeves were firmly sewed together. Louisa Stark stared at the sewed sleeves.

"What does this mean?" she asked herself. She examined the sewing carefully; the stitches were small, and

She looked around the room. On the stand beside the bed was something which she had not noticed before: a

little oldfashioned workbox with a picture of a little boy in a pinafore on the top. Beside this workbox

lay, as if just laid down by the user, a spool of black silk, a pair of scissors, and a large steel thimble with a

hole in the top, after an old style. Louisa stared at these, then at the sleeves of her dress. She moved toward

the door. For a moment she thought that this was something legitimate about which she might demand

information; then she became doubtful. Suppose that workbox had been there all the time; suppose she had

forgotten; suppose she herself had done this absurd thing, or suppose that she had not, what was to hinder the

others from thinking so; what was to hinder a doubt being cast upon her own memory and reasoning powers?

Louisa Stark had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown in spite of her iron constitution and her great will

power. No woman can teach school for forty years with absolute impunity. She was more credulous as to her

own possible failings than she had ever been in her whole life. She was cold with horror and terror, and yet

not so much horror and terror of the supernatural as of her own self. The weakness of belief in the

supernatural was nearly impossible for this strong nature. She could more easily believe in her own failing

"I don't know but I'm going to be like Aunt Marcia," she said to herself, and her fat face took on a long

She started toward the mirror to unfasten her dress, then she remembered the strange circumstance of the

brooch and stopped short. Then she straightened herself defiantly and marched up to the bureau and looked in

the glass. She saw reflected therein, fastening the lace at her throat, the oldfashioned thing of a large oval, a

knot of fair and black hair under glass, set in a rim of twisted gold. She unfastened it with trembling fingers

and looked at it. It was her own brooch, the cluster of pearl grapes on black onyx. Louisa Stark placed the

trinket in its little box on the nest of pink cotton and put it away in the bureau drawer. Only death could

Her fingers were so cold they felt fairly numb as she unfastened her dress; she staggered when she slipped it

over her head. She went to the closet to hang it up and recoiled. A strong smell of lovage came in her nostrils;

a purple gown near the door swung softly against her face as if impelled by some wind from within. All the

pegs were filled with garments not her own, mostly of somber black, but there were some strangepatterned

Suddenly Louisa Stark recovered her nerve. This, she told herself, was something distinctly tangible.

Somebody had been taking liberties with her wardrobe. Somebody had been hanging some one else's clothes

in her closet. She hastily slipped on her dress again and marched straight down to the parlour. The people

were seated there; the widow and the minister were playing backgammon. The librarian was watching them.

Miss Amanda Gill was mending beside the large lamp on the centre table. They all looked up with

amazement as Louisa Stark entered. There was something strange in her expression. She noticed none of

"She's in the kitchen mixing up bread," Amanda quavered; "is there anything" But the schoolteacher was

She found Sophia Gill standing by the kitchen table kneading dough with dignity. The young girl Flora was

bringing some flour from the pantry. She stopped and stared at Miss Stark, and her pretty, delicate young face

"Miss Gill," said she, with her utmost schoolteacher manner, "I wish to inquire why you have had my own

Sophia Gill stood with her hands fast in the dough, regarding her. Her own face paled slowly and reluctantly,

"My clothes are not in the closet in my room and it is full of things which do not belong to me," said Louisa

"Bring me that flour," said Sophia sharply to the young girl, who obeyed, casting timid, startled glances at

Miss Stark as she passed her. Sophia Gill began rubbing her hands clear of the dough. "I am sure I know

nothing about it," she said with a certain tempered asperity. "Do you know anything about it, Flora?"

"Oh, no, I don't know anything about it, Aunt Sophia," answered the young girl, fluttering.

Then Sophia turned to Miss Stark. "I'll go upstairs with you, Miss Stark," said she, "and see what the trouble

"Very well," said Miss Stark with dignity. Then she and Miss Sophia went upstairs. Flora stood staring after

Sophia and Louisa Stark went up to the southwest chamber. The closet door was shut. Sophia threw it open,

then she looked at Miss Stark. On the pegs hung the schoolteacher's own garments in ordinary array.

Miss Stark strove to speak but she could not. She sank down on the nearest chair. She did not even attempt to

defend herself. She saw her own clothes in the closet. She knew there had been no time for any human being

to remove those which she thought she had seen and put hers in their places. She knew it was impossible.

She muttered something, she scarcely knew what. Sophia then went out of the room. Presently she undressed

and went to bed. In the morning she did not go down to breakfast, and when Sophia came to inquire,

requested that the stage be ordered for the noon train. She said that she was sorry, but was ill, and feared lest

she might be worse, and she felt that she must return home at once. She looked ill, and could not take even

the toast and tea which Sophia had prepared for her. Sophia felt a certain pity for her, but it was largely mixed

with indignation. She felt that she knew the true reason for the schoolteacher's illness and sudden departure,

"If folks are going to act like fools we shall never be able to keep this house," she said to Amanda after Miss

Directly the widow, Mrs. Elvira Simmons, knew that the schoolteacher had gone and the southwest room was

vacant, she begged to have it in exchange for her own. Sophia hesitated a moment; she eyed the widow

sharply. There was something about the large, roseate face worn in firm lines of humour and decision which

"If you have common sense enough not to keep fussing because the room happens to be the one my aunt died

That very afternoon she moved into the southwest chamber. The young girl Flora assisted her, though much

"Now I want you to carry Mrs. Simmons' dresses into the closet in that room and hang them up nicely, and

see that she has everything she wants," said Sophia Gill. "And you can change the bed and put on fresh

"Afraid of what? I should think you'd hang your head. No; you go right in there and do what I tell you."

Pretty soon Flora came running into the sittingroom where Sophia was, as pale as death, and in her hand she

"You run down street and do that errand at the grocer's for me and I'll see that room," said Sophia with

dignity. She carried the nightcap away and put it in the trunk in the garret where she had supposed it stored

with the rest of the dead woman's belongings. Then she went into the southwest chamber and made the bed

The widow was openly triumphant over her new room. She talked a deal about it at the dinnertable.

"It is the best room in the house, and I expect you all to be envious of me," said she.

"Ghosts!" repeated the widow with scorn. "If a ghost comes I'll send her over to you. You are just across the

"You needn't," returned Eliza Lippincott with a shudder. "I wouldn't sleep in that room, after" she checked

"I trust Miss Lippincott has too good sense and too great faith to believe in anything of that sort," said the

"You did see or hear somethingnow what was it, I want to know?" said the widow that evening when they

"Well, one day last week, just before the schoolteacher came, I went in that room to see if there were any

clouds. I wanted to wear my gray dress, and I was afraid it was going to rain, so I wanted to look at the sky at

"Well, you know that chintz over the bed, and the valance, and the easy chair; what pattern should you say it

"Why, peacocks on a blue ground. Good land, I shouldn't think any one who had ever seen that would forget

"Only when I went in there that afternoon it was not peacocks on a blue ground; it was great red roses on a

"Well, all I know is those peacocks were gone for an hour that afternoon and the red roses on the yellow

"Well," said she, "I guess I sha'n't give up my nice room for any such tomfoolery as that. I guess I would just

as soon have red roses on a yellow ground as peacocks on a blue; but there's no use talking, you couldn't have

"I don't know," said Eliza Lippincott; "but I know I wouldn't sleep in that room if you'd give me a thousand

When Mrs. Simmons went to the southwest chamber that night she cast a glance at the bedhanging and the

easy chair. There were the peacocks on the blue ground. She gave a contemptuous thought to Eliza

"I don't believe but she's getting nervous," she thought. "I wonder if any of her family have been out at all."

But just before Mrs. Simmons was ready to get into bed she looked again at the hangings and the easy chair,

and there were the red roses on the yellow ground instead of the peacocks on the blue. She looked long and

sharply. Then she shut her eyes, and then opened them and looked. She still saw the red roses. Then she

crossed the room, turned her back to the bed, and looked out at the night from the south window. It was clear

and the full moon was shining. She watched it a moment sailing over the dark blue in its nimbus of gold.

Then she looked around at the bed hangings. She still saw the red roses on the yellow ground.

Mrs. Simmons was struck in her most venerable point. This apparent contradiction of the reasonable as

manifested in such a commonplace thing as chintz of a bedhanging affected this ordinarily unimaginative

woman as no ghostly appearance could have done. Those red roses on the yellow ground were to her much

more ghostly than any strange figure clad in the white robes of the grave entering the room.

She took a step toward the door, then she turned with a resolute air. "As for going downstairs and owning up

I'm scared and having that Lippincott girl crowing over me, I won't for any red roses instead of peacocks. I

guess they can't hurt me, and as long as we've both of us seen 'em I guess we can't both be getting loony," she

Mrs. Elvira Simmons blew out her light and got into bed and lay staring out between the chintz hangings at

the moonlit room. She said her prayers in bed always as being more comfortable, and presumably just as

acceptable in the case of a faithful servant with a stout habit of body. Then after a little she fell asleep; she

was of too practical a nature to be kept long awake by anything which had no power of actual bodily effect

upon her. No stress of the spirit had ever disturbed her slumbers. So she slumbered between the red roses, or

But she was awakened about midnight by a strange sensation in her throat. She had dreamed that some one

with long white fingers was strangling her, and she saw bending over her the face of an old woman in a white

cap. When she waked there was no old woman, the room was almost as light as day in the full moonlight, and

looked very peaceful; but the strangling sensation at her throat continued, and besides that, her face and ears

felt muffled. She put up her hand and felt that her head was covered with a ruffled nightcap tied under her

chin so tightly that it was exceedingly uncomfortable. A great qualm of horror shot over her. She tore the

thing off frantically and flung it from her with a convulsive effort as if it had been a spider. She gave, as she

did so, a quick, short scream of terror. She sprang out of bed and was going toward the door, when she

It had suddenly occurred to her that Eliza Lippincott might have entered the room and tied on the cap while

she was asleep. She had not locked her door. She looked in the closet, under the bed; there was no one there.

Then she tried to open the door, but to her astonishment found that it was lockedbolted on the inside. "I

must have locked it, after all," she reflected with wonder, for she never locked her door. Then she could

scarcely conceal from herself that there was something out of the usual about it all. Certainly no one could

have entered the room and departed locking the door on the inside. She could not control the long shiver of

horror that crept over her, but she was still resolute. She resolved that she would throw the cap out of the

window. "I'll see if I have tricks like that played on me, I don't care who does it," said she quite aloud. She

was still unable to believe wholly in the supernatural. The idea of some human agency was still in her mind,

She went toward the spot where she had thrown the capshe had stepped over it on her way to the

doorbut it was not there. She searched the whole room, lighting her lamp, but she could not find the cap.

Finally she gave it up. She extinguished her lamp and went back to bed. She fell asleep again, to be again

awakened in the same fashion. That time she tore off the cap as before, but she did not fling it on the floor as

Holding fast to the white flimsy thing, she sprang out of bed, ran to the window which was open, slipped the

screen, and flung it out; but a sudden gust of wind, though the night was calm, arose and it floated back in her

face. She brushed it aside like a cobweb and she clutched at it. She was actually furious. It eluded her

clutching fingers. Then she did not see it at all. She examined the floor, she lighted her lamp again and

Mrs. Simmons was then in such a rage that all terror had disappeared for the time. She did not know with

what she was angry, but she had a sense of some mocking presence which was silently proving too strong

against her weakness, and she was aroused to the utmost power of resistance. To be baffled like this and

resisted by something which was as nothing to her straining senses filled her with intensest resentment.

Finally she got back into bed again; she did not go to sleep. She felt strangely drowsy, but she fought against

it. She was wide awake, staring at the moonlight, when she suddenly felt the soft white strings of the thing

tighten around her throat and realized that her enemy was again upon her. She seized the strings, untied them,

twitched off the cap, ran with it to the table where her scissors lay and furiously cut it into small bits. She cut

"There!" said she quite aloud. "I guess I sha'n't have any more trouble with this old cap."

She tossed the bits of muslin into a basket and went back to bed. Almost immediately she felt the soft strings

tighten around her throat. Then at last she yielded, vanquished. This new refutal of all laws of reason by

which she had learned, as it were, to spell her theory of life, was too much for her equilibrium. She pulled off

the clinging strings feebly, drew the thing from her head, slid weakly out of bed, caught up her wrapper and

hastened out of the room. She went noiselessly along the hall to her own old room: she entered, got into her

familiar bed, and lay there the rest of the night shuddering and listening, and if she dozed, waking with a start

at the feeling of the pressure upon her throat to find that it was not there, yet still to be unable to shake off

When daylight came she crept back to the southwest chamber and hurriedly got some clothes in which to

dress herself. It took all her resolution to enter the room, but nothing unusual happened while she was there.

She hastened back to her old chamber, dressed herself and went down to breakfast with an imperturbable

face. Her colour had not faded. When asked by Eliza Lippincott how she had slept, she replied with an

appearance of calmness which was bewildering that she had not slept very well. She never did sleep very well

Eliza Lippincott was not deceived, however, neither were the Gill sisters, nor the young girl, Flora. Eliza

"You needn't talk to me about sleeping well," said she. "I know something queer happened in that room last

They all looked at Mrs. Simmons, inquiringlythe librarian with malicious curiosity and triumph, the

minister with sad incredulity, Sophia Gill with fear and indignation, Amanda and the young girl with

"I saw nothing nor heard nothing which I trust could not have been accounted for in some rational manner,"

"I do not wish to discuss the matter any further," replied Mrs. Simmons shortly. Then she passed her plate for

more creamed potato. She felt that she would die before she confessed to the ghastly absurdity of that

nightcap, or to having been disturbed by the flight of peacocks off a blue field of chintz after she had scoffed

at the possibility of such a thing. She left the whole matter so vague that in a fashion she came off the

mistress of the situation. She at all events impressed everybody by her coolness in the face of no one knew

After breakfast, with the assistance of Amanda and Flora, she moved back into her old room. Scarcely a word

was spoken during the process of moving, but they all worked with trembling haste and looked guilty when

That afternoon the young minister, John Dunn, went to Sophia Gill and requested permission to occupy the

"I don't ask to have my effects moved there," said he, "for I could scarcely afford a room so much superior to

the one I now occupy, but I would like, if you please, to sleep there tonight for the purpose of refuting in my

"How anybody with common sense can believe for a minute in any such nonsense passes my

"It certainly passes mine how anybody with Christian faith can believe in ghosts," said the minister gently,

and Sophia Gill felt a certain feminine contentment in hearing him. The minister was a child to her; she

regarded him with no tincture of sentiment, and yet she loved to hear two other women covertly condemned

That night about twelve o'clock the Reverend John Dunn essayed to go to his nightly slumber in the

He traversed the hall with a little nightlamp in his hand, opened the door of the southwest chamber, and

essayed to enter. He might as well have essayed to enter the solid side of a house. He could not believe his

senses. The door was certainly open; he could look into the room full of soft lights and shadows under the

moonlight which streamed into the windows. He could see the bed in which he had expected to pass the

night, but he could not enter. Whenever he strove to do so he had a curious sensation as if he were trying to

press against an invisible person who met him with a force of opposition impossible to overcome. The

minister was not an athletic man, yet he had considerable strength. He squared his elbows, set his mouth hard,

and strove to push his way through into the room. The opposition which he met was as sternly and mutely

For a half hour John Dunn, doubting, raging, overwhelmed with spiritual agony as to the state of his own soul

rather than fear, strove to enter that southwest chamber. He was simply powerless against this uncanny

obstacle. Finally a great horror as of evil itself came over him. He was a nervous man and very young. He

fairly fled to his own chamber and locked himself in like a terrorstricken girl.

The next morning he went to Miss Gill and told her frankly what had happened, and begged her to say

nothing about it lest he should have injured the cause by the betrayal of such weakness, for he actually had

"What it is I know not, Miss Sophia," said he, "but I firmly believe, against my will, that there is in that room

some accursed evil power at work, of which modern faith and modern science know nothing."

Miss Sophia Gill listened with grimly lowering face. She had an inborn respect for the clergy, but she was

bound to hold that southwest chamber in the dearly beloved old house of her fathers free of blame.

"I think I will sleep in that room myself tonight," she said, when the minister had finished.

"I have great admiration for your faith and courage, Miss Sophia," he said, "but are you wise?"

"I am fully resolved to sleep in that room tonight," said she conclusively. There were occasions when Miss

It was ten o'clock that night when Sophia Gill entered the southwest chamber. She had told her sister what

she intended doing and had been proof against her tearful entreaties. Amanda was charged not to tell the

Sophia, when she entered the southwest chamber, set the lamp which she carried on the bureau, and began

moving about the rooms pulling down the curtains, taking off the nice white counterpane of the bed, and

As she did so, moving with great coolness and deliberation, she became conscious that she was thinking

some thoughts that were foreign to her. She began remembering what she could not have remembered, since

she was not then born: the trouble over her mother's marriage, the bitter opposition, the shutting the door

upon her, the ostracizing her from heart and home. She became aware of a most singular sensation as of bitter

resentment herself, and not against the mother and sister who had so treated her own mother, but against her

own mother, and then she became aware of a like bitterness extended to her own self. She felt malignant

toward her mother as a young girl whom she remembered, though she could not have remembered, and she

felt malignant toward her own self, and her sister Amanda, and Flora. Evil suggestions surged in her

brainsuggestions which turned her heart to stone and which still fascinated her. And all the time by a sort

of double consciousness she knew that what she thought was strange and not due to her own volition. She

knew that she was thinking the thoughts of some other person, and she knew who. She felt herself possessed.

But there was tremendous strength in the woman's nature. She had inherited strength for good and righteous

selfassertion, from the evil strength of her ancestors. They had turned their own weapons against

themselves. She made an effort which seemed almost mortal, but was conscious that the hideous thing was

gone from her. She thought her own thoughts. Then she scouted to herself the idea of anything supernatural

about the terrific experience. "I am imagining everything," she told herself. She went on with her

preparations; she went to the bureau to take down her hair. She looked in the glass and saw, instead of her

softly parted waves of hair, harsh lines of irongray under the black borders of an oldfashioned headdress.

She saw instead of her smooth, broad forehead, a high one wrinkled with the intensest concentration of

selfish reflections of a long life; she saw instead of her steady blue eyes, black ones with depths of malignant

reserve, behind a broad meaning of ill will; she saw instead of her firm, benevolent mouth one with a hard,

thin line, a network of melancholic wrinkles. She saw instead of her own face, middleaged and good to see,

the expression of a life of honesty and good will to others and patience under trials, the face of a very old

woman scowling forever with unceasing hatred and misery at herself and all others, at life, and death, at that

which had been and that which was to come. She saw instead of her own face in the glass, the face of her

Sophia Gill left the room. She went into the one which she shared with her sister Amanda. Amanda looked up

and saw her standing there. She had set the lamp on a table, and she stood holding a handkerchief over her

"Oh, Sophia, let me call somebody. Is your face hurt? Sophia, what is the matter with your face?" fairly

Sophia Gill looked at her sister. "Never as long as I live will I tell you what I thought you would see, and you

When it became generally known in Townsend Centre that the Townsends were going to move to the city,

there was great excitement and dismay. For the Townsends to move was about equivalent to the town's

moving. The Townsend ancestors had founded the village a hundred years ago. The first Townsend had kept

a wayside hostelry for man and beast, known as the "Sign of the Leopard." The signboard, on which the

leopard was painted a bright blue, was still extant, and prominently so, being nailed over the present

Townsend's front door. This Townsend, by name David, kept the village store. There had been no tavern

since the railroad was built through Townsend Centre in his father's day. Therefore the family, being ousted

by the march of progress from their chosen employment, took up with a general country store as being the

next thing to a country tavern, the principal difference consisting in the fact that all the guests were transients,

never requiring bedchambers, securing their rest on the tops of sugar and flour barrels and codfish boxes, and

their refreshment from stray nibblings at the stock in trade, to the profitless deplenishment of raisins and loaf

The flitting of the Townsends from the home of their ancestors was due to a sudden access of wealth from the

death of a relative and the desire of Mrs. Townsend to secure better advantages for her son George, sixteen

years old, in the way of education, and for her daughter Adrianna, ten years older, better matrimonial

opportunities. However, this last inducement for leaving Townsend Centre was not openly stated, only

"Sarah Townsend don't think there's anybody in Townsend Centre fit for her Adrianna to marry, and so she's

goin' to take her to Boston to see if she can't pick up somebody there," they said. Then they wondered what

Abel Lyons would do. He had been a humble suitor for Adrianna for years, but her mother had not approved,

and Adrianna, who was dutiful, had repulsed him delicately and rather sadly. He was the only lover whom

she had ever had, and she felt sorry and grateful; she was a plain, awkward girl, and had a patient recognition

But her mother was ambitious, more so than her father, who was rather pugnaciously satisfied with what he

had, and not easily disposed to change. However, he yielded to his wife and consented to sell out his business

David Townsend was curiously unlike the line of ancestors from whom he had come. He had either

retrograded or advanced, as one might look at it. His moral character was certainly better, but he had not the

fiery spirit and eager grasp at advantage which had distinguished them. Indeed, the old Townsends, though

prominent and respected as men of property and influence, had reputations not above suspicions. There was

more than one dark whisper regarding them handed down from mother to son in the village, and especially

was this true of the first Townsend, he who built the tavern bearing the Sign of the Blue Leopard. His portrait,

a hideous effort of contemporary art, hung in the garret of David Townsend's home. There was many a tale of

wild roistering, if no worse, in that old roadhouse, and high stakes, and quarreling in cups, and blows, and

money gotten in evil fashion, and the matter hushed up with a high hand for inquirers by the imperious

Townsends who terrorized everybody. David Townsend terrorized nobody. He had gotten his little

competence from his store by honest methodsthe exchanging of sterling goods and true weights for

country produce and country shillings. He was sober and reliable, with intense selfrespect and a decided

talent for the management of money. It was principally for this reason that he took great delight in his sudden

wealth by legacy. He had thereby greater opportunities for the exercise of his native shrewdness in a bargain.

One day in spring the old Townsend house was shut up, the Blue Leopard was taken carefully down from his

lair over the front door, the family chattels were loaded on the train, and the Townsends departed. It was a sad

and eventful day for Townsend Centre. A man from Barre had rented the storeDavid had decided at the

last not to selland the old familiars congregated in melancholy fashion and talked over the situation. An

enormous pride over their departed townsman became evident. They paraded him, flaunting him like a banner

in the eyes of the new man. "David is awful smart," they said; "there won't nobody get the better of him in the

city if he has lived in Townsend Centre all his life. He's got his eyes open. Know what he paid for his house

in Boston? Well, sir, that house cost twentyfive thousand dollars, and David he bought it for five. Yes, sir,

"Must have been some out about it," remarked the new man, scowling over his counter. He was beginning to

"Not an out, sir. David he made sure on't. Catch him gettin' bit. Everythin' was in applepie order, hot an'

cold water and all, and in one of the best locations of the cityreal highup street. David he said the rent in

that street was never under a thousand. Yes, sir, David he got a bargainfive thousand dollars for a

However, as his fellow townsmen and allies stated, there seemed to be no doubt about the desirableness of

the city house which David Townsend had purchased and the fact that he had secured it for an absurdly low

price. The whole family were at first suspicious. It was ascertained that the house had cost a round sum only a

few years ago; it was in perfect repair; nothing whatever was amiss with plumbing, furnace, anything. There

was not even a soap factory within smelling distance, as Mrs. Townsend had vaguely surmised. She was sure

that she had heard of houses being undesirable for such reasons, but there was no soap factory. They all

sniffed and peeked; when the first rainfall came they looked at the ceiling, confidently expecting to see dark

spots where the leaks had commenced, but there were none. They were forced to confess that their suspicions

were allayed, that the house was perfect, even overshadowed with the mystery of a lower price than it was

worth. That, however, was an additional perfection in the opinion of the Townsends, who had their share of

New England thrift. They had lived just one month in their new house, and were happy, although at times

somewhat lonely from missing the society of Townsend Centre, when the trouble began. The Townsends,

although they lived in a fine house in a genteel, almost fashionable, part of the city, were true to their

antecedents and kept, as they had been accustomed, only one maid. She was the daughter of a farmer on the

outskirts of their native village, was middleaged, and had lived with them for the last ten years. One

pleasant Monday morning she rose early and did the family washing before breakfast, which had been

prepared by Mrs. Townsend and Adrianna, as was their habit on washingdays. The family were seated at the

breakfast table in their basement diningroom, and this maid, whose name was Cordelia, was hanging out the

clothes in the vacant lot. This vacant lot seemed a valuable one, being on a corner. It was rather singular that

it had not been built upon. The Townsends had wondered at it and agreed that they would have preferred their

own house to be there. They had, however, utilized it as far as possible with their innocent, rural disregard of

"We might just as well hang out our washing in that vacant lot," Mrs. Townsend had told Cordelia the first

Monday of their stay in the house. "Our little yard ain't half big enough for all our clothes, and it is sunnier

So Cordelia had hung out the wash there for four Mondays, and this was the fifth. The breakfast was about

half finishedthey had reached the buckwheat cakeswhen this maid came rushing into the diningroom

and stood regarding them, speechless, with a countenance indicative of the utmost horror. She was deadly

pale. Her hands, sodden with soapsuds, hung twitching at her sides in the folds of her calico gown; her very

hair, which was light and sparse, seemed to bristle with fear. All the Townsends turned and looked at her.

"Cordelia Battles, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Townsend. Adrianna gasped for breath and turned as white

as the maid. "What is the matter?" repeated Mrs. Townsend, but the maid was unable to speak. Mrs.

Townsend, who could be peremptory, sprang up, ran to the frightened woman and shook her violently.

"Cordelia Battles, you speak," said she, "and not stand there staring that way, as if you were struck dumb!

"There'ssomebody elsehanging out clothesin the vacant lot," she gasped, and clutched at a chair for

"Who?" cried Mrs. Townsend, rousing to indignation, for already she had assumed a proprietorship in the

vacant lot. "Is it the folks in the next house? I'd like to know what right they have! We are next to that vacant

"Idunnowho it is," gasped Cordelia. "Why, we've seen that girl next door go to mass every morning,"

said Mrs. Townsend. "She's got a fiery red head. Seems as if you might know her by this time, Cordelia."

"It ain't that girl," gasped Cordelia. Then she added in a horrorstricken voice, "I couldn't see who 'twas."

"All I could see was" Cordelia hesitated, with an expression of the utmost horror.

"All I could see was the shadow of somebody, very slim, hanging out the clothes, and"

"If I didn't know you so well, I should think you had been drinking," said Mrs. Townsend. "Now, Cordelia

Battles, I'm going out in that vacant lot and see myself what you're talking about."

With that Mrs. Townsend and all the others, except Adrianna, who remained to tremble with the maid, sallied

forth into the vacant lot. They had to go out the area gate into the street to reach it. It was nothing unusual in

the way of vacant lots. One large poplar tree, the relic of the old forest which had once flourished there,

twinkled in one corner; for the rest, it was overgrown with coarse weeds and a few dusty flowers. The

Townsends stood just inside the rude board fence which divided the lot from the street and stared with

wonder and horror, for Cordelia had told the truth. They all saw what she had describedthe shadow of an

exceedingly slim woman moving along the ground with upstretched arms, the shadows of strange,

nondescript garments flapping from a shadowy line, but when they looked up for the substance of the

"My goodness!" gasped Mrs. Townsend. Her face assumed a strange gathering of wrath in the midst of her

terror. Suddenly she made a determined move forward, although her husband strove to hold her back.

"You let me be," said she. She moved forward. Then she recoiled and gave a loud shriek. "The wet sheet

flapped in my face," she cried. "Take me away, take me away!" Then she fainted. Between them they got her

back to the house. "It was awful," she moaned when she came to herself, with the family all around her where

"Nothing at all," replied David Townsend stoutly. He was remarkable for courage and staunch belief in

"We won't talk any about it," said David. "Here, Jane, you drink this hot teait will do you good; and

Cordelia, you hang out the clothes in our own yard. George, you go and put up the line for her."

After that Cordelia hung the Townsend wash in the yard of their own house, standing always with her back to

the vacant lot. As for David Townsend, he spent a good deal of his time in the lot watching the shadows, but

"I guess the shadows come from the smoke from our chimneys, or else the poplar tree," he said.

Very soon new mysteries arose. One day Cordelia rang the dinnerbell at their usual dinner hour, the same as

in Townsend Centre, high noon, and the family assembled. With amazement Adrianna looked at the dishes on

Cordelia stopped short as she was about setting a tumbler of water beside a plate, and the water slopped over.

"Why," said Adrianna, her face paling, "Ithought there was boiled dinner. Ismelt cabbage cooking."

"I knew there would something else come up," gasped Cordelia, leaning hard on the back of Adrianna's chair.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Townsend sharply, but her own face began to assume the shocked pallour

which it was so easy nowadays for all their faces to assume at the merest suggestion of anything out of the

"I smelt cabbage cooking all the morning up in my room," Adrianna said faintly, "and here's codfish and

The Townsends all looked at one another. David rose with an exclamation and rushed out of the room. The

"There's some smell of cabbage out there," he admitted reluctantly. Then he looked at her with a challenge.

"Cordelia," said Mrs. Townsend, "you go over to the next house and you ask if they've got cabbage for

"Says they never have cabbage," she announced with gloomy triumph and a conclusive glance at Mr.

"Oh, father, let's move away; let's sell the house," cried Adrianna in a panicstricken tone.

"If you think I'm going to sell a house that I got as cheap as this one because we smell cabbage in a vacant

"And a few shadows," added David. "I am tired of such nonsense. I thought you had more sense, Jane."

"One of the boys at school asked me if we lived in the house next to the vacant lot on Wells Street and

After a few hours the family, stimulated by Mr. Townsend's calm, common sense, agreed that it was

exceedingly foolish to be disturbed by a mysterious odour of cabbage. They even laughed at themselves.

"I suppose we have got so nervous over those shadows hanging out clothes that we notice every little thing,"

"You will find out some day that that is no more to be regarded than the cabbage," said her husband.

"You can't account for that wet sheet hitting my face," said Mrs. Townsend, doubtfully.

That afternoon things went on as usual in the household until nearly four o'clock. Adrianna went downtown

to do some shopping. Mrs. Townsend sat sewing beside the bay window in her room, which was a front one

in the third story. George had not got home. Mr. Townsend was writing a letter in the library. Cordelia was

busy in the basement; the twilight, which was coming earlier and earlier every night, was beginning to gather,

when suddenly there was a loud crash which shook the house from its foundations. Even the dishes on the

sideboard rattled, and the glasses rang like bells. The pictures on the walls of Mrs. Townsend's room swung

out from the walls. But that was not all: every lookingglass in the house cracked simultaneouslyas nearly

as they could judgefrom top to bottom, then shivered into fragments over the floors. Mrs. Townsend was

too frightened to scream. She sat huddled in her chair, gasping for breath, her eyes, rolling from side to side

in incredulous terror, turned toward the street. She saw a great black group of people crossing it just in front

of the vacant lot. There was something inexpressibly strange and gloomy about this moving group; there was

an effect of sweeping, wavings and foldings of sable draperies and gleams of deadly white faces; then they

passed. She twisted her head to see, and they disappeared in the vacant lot. Mr. Townsend came hurrying into

"Did you fall?" he asked inconsequently, as if his wife, who was small, could have produced such a

Cordelia's feet were heard as she staggered on the stairs. She almost fell into the room. She reeled over to Mr.

Townsend and clutched his arm. He cast a sidewise glance, half furious, half commiserating at her.

"I don't know. What is it? Oh, what is it? The lookingglass in the kitchen is broken. All over the floor. Oh,

"Lookin'glasses broken is a sign of death in the house," said Cordelia. "If it's me, I hope I'm ready; but I'd

Mr. Townsend shook himself loose and eyed the two trembling women with gathering resolution.

"Now, look here, both of you," he said. "This is nonsense. You'll die sure enough of fright if you keep on this

"It is nothing but an earthquake," persisted Mr. Townsend. "It acted just like that. Things always are broken

She was on the verge of hysterics. Her husband held her firmly by the arm as his eyes followed the direction

of her rigid pointing finger. Cordelia looked also, her eyes seeming converged to a bright point of fear. On

the floor in front of the broken lookingglass lay a mass of black stuff in a grewsome long ridge.

Mr. Townsend dropped his wife's arm and took one stride toward the object. It was a very long crape veil. He

"Oh, David, I never had one. You know, oh, you know Ishouldn't unless you died. How came it there?"

"I'm darned if I know," said David, regarding it. He was deadly pale, but still resentful rather than afraid.

"I'd like to know what in thunder all this means?" said David. He gave the thing an angry toss and it fell on

Cordelia began to weep with racking sobs. Mrs. Townsend reached out and caught her husband's hand,

"As for my selling a house I paid only five thousand for when it's worth twentyfive, for any such nonsense

David gave one stride toward the black veil, but it rose from the floor and moved away before him across the

room at exactly the same height as if suspended from a woman's head. He pursued it, clutching vainly, all

around the room, then he swung himself on his heel with an exclamation and the thing fell to the floor again

in the long heap. Then were heard hurrying feet on the stairs and Adrianna burst into the room. She ran

straight to her father and clutched his arm; she tried to speak, but she chattered unintelligibly; her face was

"I can't help it. I'm mad!" said he with emphasis. "What has got into this house and you all, anyhow?"

"What is it, Adrianna, poor child," asked her mother. "Only look what has happened here."

"How do you account for THAT?" said Mrs. Townsend in an awful voice, pointing to the veil.

Adrianna did not lookshe was too engrossed with her own terrors. She began to speak in a breathless

"Iwascomingby the vacant lot," she panted, "andIIhad my new hat in a paper bag anda

parcel of blue ribbon, andI saw a crowd, an awfuloh! a whole crowd of people with white faces, as

David rushed with an impatient exclamation out of the room and returned with a glass of water which he held

Then there was a hard bound upstairs, and George entered. He was very white, but he grinned at them with an

"Hullo!" he said in a shaking voice, which he tried to control. "What on earth's to pay in that vacant lot now?"

"Oh, nothing, onlywell, there are lights over it exactly as if there was a house there, just about where the

windows would be. It looked as if you could walk right in, but when you look close there are those old

driedup weeds rattling away on the ground the same as ever. I looked at it and couldn't believe my eyes. A

woman saw it, too. She came along just as I did. She gave one look, then she screeched and ran. I waited for

"I daresay it'll be gone when he gets there," began George, then he stared round the room. "What's to pay

"Oh, George, the whole house shook all at once, and all the lookingglasses broke," wailed his mother, and

"We've got to sell out and go back to Townsend Centre," cried his wife in a wild voice. "Oh, David, say you'll

"I won't go back for any such nonsense as this, and sell a twentyfive thousand dollar house for five thousand,"

But that very night his resolution was shaken. The whole family watched together in the diningroom. They

were all afraid to go to bedthat is, all except possibly Mr. Townsend. Mrs. Townsend declared firmly that

she for one would leave that awful house and go back to Townsend Centre whether he came or not, unless

they all stayed together and watched, and Mr. Townsend yielded. They chose the diningroom for the reason

that it was nearer the street should they wish to make their egress hurriedly, and they took up their station

"It looks exactly as if we were watching with a corpse," she said in a horrorstricken whisper.

The diningroom was very large, finished in oak, with a dark blue paper above the wainscotting. The old sign

of the tavern, the Blue Leopard, hung over the mantelshelf. Mr. Townsend had insisted on hanging it there.

He had a curious pride in it. The family sat together until after midnight and nothing unusual happened. Mrs.

Townsend began to nod; Mr. Townsend read the paper ostentatiously. Adrianna and Cordelia stared with

roving eyes about the room, then at each other as if comparing notes on terror. George had a book which he

studied furtively. All at once Adrianna gave a startled exclamation and Cordelia echoed her. George whistled

faintly. Mrs. Townsend awoke with a start and Mr. Townsend's paper rattled to the floor.

The sign of the Blue Leopard over the shelf glowed as if a lantern hung over it. The radiance was thrown

from above. It grew brighter and brighter as they watched. The Blue Leopard seemed to crouch and spring

with life. Then the door into the front hall openedthe outer door, which had been carefully locked. It

squeaked and they all recognized it. They sat staring. Mr. Townsend was as transfixed as the rest. They heard

the outer door shut, then the door into the room swung open and slowly that awful black group of people

which they had seen in the afternoon entered. The Townsends with one accord rose and huddled together in a

far corner; they all held to each other and stared. The people, their faces gleaming with a whiteness of death,

their black robes waving and folding, crossed the room. They were a trifle above mortal height, or seemed so

to the terrified eyes which saw them. They reached the mantelshelf where the signboard hung, then a

blackdraped long arm was seen to rise and make a motion, as if plying a knocker. Then the whole company

passed out of sight, as if through the wall, and the room was as before. Mrs. Townsend was shaking in a

nervous chill, Adrianna was almost fainting, Cordelia was in hysterics. David Townsend stood glaring in a

curious way at the sign of the Blue Leopard. George stared at him with a look of horror. There was something

in his father's face which made him forget everything else. At last he touched his arm timidly.

David turned and regarded him with a look of rage and fury, then his face cleared; he passed his hand over

"You looked like that awful picture of old Tom Townsend in the garret in Townsend Centre, father,"

"Should think I might look like 'most any old cuss after such darned work as this," growled David, but his

face was white. "Go and pour out some hot tea for your mother," he ordered the boy sharply. He himself

shook Cordelia violently. "Stop such actions!" he shouted in her ears, and shook her again. "Ain't you a

church member?" he demanded; "what be you afraid of? You ain't done nothin' wrong, have ye?"

"Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me," she cried out. "If I ain't done

wrong, mebbe them that's come before me did, and when the Evil One and the Powers of Darkness is abroad

"If you don't hush up," said David, but still with that white terror and horror on his own face, "I'll bundle you

Then Cordelia was quiet, after one wild roll of her eyes at him. The colour was returning to Adrianna's

"It's after midnight," she gasped, "and I don't believe they'll come again tonight. Do you, David?"

"We won't. Tomorrow we'll pack off bag and baggage to Townsend Centre, if it takes all the fire department

The next day Mr. Townsend went to the real estate agent who had sold him the house.

"It's no use," he said, "I can't stand it. Sell the house for what you can get. I'll give it away rather than keep

Then he added a few strong words as to his opinion of parties who sold him such an establishment. But the

"I'll own I suspected something wrong when the owner, who pledged me to secrecy as to his name, told me to

sell that place for what I could get, and did not limit me. I had never heard anything, but I began to suspect

something was wrong. Then I made a few inquiries and found out that there was a rumour in the

neighbourhood that there was something out of the usual about that vacant lot. I had wondered myself why it

wasn't built upon. There was a story about it's being undertaken once, and the contract made, and the

contractor dying; then another man took it and one of the workmen was killed on his way to dig the cellar,

and the others struck. I didn't pay much attention to it. I never believed much in that sort of thing anyhow,

and then, too, I couldn't find out that there had ever been anything wrong about the house itself, except as the

people who had lived there were said to have seen and heard queer things in the vacant lot, so I thought you

might be able to get along, especially as you didn't look like a man who was timid, and the house was such a

"Do you know the names of the people who formerly owned the vacant lot?" asked Mr. Townsend.

"I don't know for certain," replied the agent, "for the original owners flourished long before your or my day,

but I do know that the lot goes by the name of the old Gaston lot. What's the matter? Are you ill?"

"No; it is nothing," replied Mr. Townsend. "Get what you can for the house; perhaps another family might

"I am going back to Townsend Centre as fast as steam can carry me after we get packed up and out of that

He did not tell the agent nor any of his family what had caused him to start when told the name of the former

owners of the lot. He remembered all at once the story of a ghastly murder which had taken place in the Blue

Leopard. The victim's name was Gaston and the murderer had never been discovered.

Mrs. John Emerson, sitting with her needlework beside the window, looked out and saw Mrs. Rhoda Meserve

coming down the street, and knew at once by the trend of her steps and the cant of her head that she

meditated turning in at her gate. She also knew by a certain something about her general carriagea

thrusting forward of the neck, a bustling hitch of the shouldersthat she had important news. Rhoda

Meserve always had the news as soon as the news was in being, and generally Mrs. John Emerson was the

first to whom she imparted it. The two women had been friends ever since Mrs. Meserve had married Simon

Mrs. Meserve was a pretty woman, moving with graceful flirts of ruffling skirts; her clearcut, nervous face,

as delicately tinted as a shell, looked brightly from the plumy brim of a black hat at Mrs. Emerson in the

window. Mrs. Emerson was glad to see her coming. She returned the greeting with enthusiasm, then rose

hurriedly, ran into the cold parlour and brought out one of the best rockingchairs. She was just in time, after

"Goodafternoon," said she. "I declare, I'm real glad to see you. I've been alone all day. John went to the city

this morning. I thought of coming over to your house this afternoon, but I couldn't bring my sewing very

"Well, I didn't have a thing on hand except my crochet work," responded Mrs. Meserve, "and I thought I'd

"I'm real glad you did," repeated Mrs. Emerson. "Take your things right off. Here, I'll put them on my bed in

Mrs. Meserve settled herself in the parlour rockingchair, while Mrs. Emerson carried her shawl and hat into

the little adjoining bedroom. When she returned Mrs. Meserve was rocking peacefully and was already at

"Yes. I don't suppose it'll bring enough to pay for the worsted, let alone the work, but I suppose I've got to

"I rather guess it is. It takes me a week every minute I can get to make one. I wish those that bought such

things for twentyfive cents had to make them. Guess they'd sing another song. Well, I suppose I oughtn't to

complain as long as it is for the Lord, but sometimes it does seem as if the Lord didn't get much out of it."

"Well, it's pretty work," said Mrs. Emerson, sitting down at the opposite window and taking up her dress

The two women rocked and sewed and crocheted in silence for two or three minutes. They were both waiting.

Mrs. Meserve waited for the other's curiosity to develop in order that her news might have, as it were, a

befitting stage entrance. Mrs. Emerson waited for the news. Finally she could wait no longer.

"Well, I don't know as there's anything very particular," hedged the other woman, prolonging the situation.

"Well, Simon says my face is so expressive I can't hide anything more than five minutes no matter how hard I

try," said she. "Well, there is some news. Simon came home with it this noon. He heard it in South Dayton.

"Why, some folks from Boston that moved to South Dayton last year. They haven't been satisfied with the

house they had thereit wasn't large enough. The man has got considerable property and can afford to live

pretty well. He's got a wife and his unmarried sister in the family. The sister's got money, too. He does

business in Boston and it's just as easy to get to Boston from here as from South Dayton, and so they're

"Oh, Simon said they told him about that and he just laughed. Said he wasn't afraid and neither was his wife

and sister. Said he'd risk ghosts rather than little tuckedup sleepingrooms without any sun, like they've had

in the Dayton house. Said he'd rather risk SEEING ghosts, than risk being ghosts themselves. Simon said they

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Emerson, "it is a beautiful house, and maybe there isn't anything in those stories. It

never seemed to me they came very straight anyway. I never took much stock in them. All I thought wasif

"Nothing in creation would hire me to go into a house that I'd ever heard a word against of that kind,"

declared Mrs. Meserve with emphasis. "I wouldn't go into that house if they would give me the rent. I've seen

Mrs. Meserve had not married young. Mrs. Emerson had mental calculations when she heard that.

"No, I didn't see anything that did me harm looking at it in one way, but it don't do anybody in this world any

good to see things that haven't any business to be seen in it. You never get over it."

"Well, of course I don't want to urge you," said she, "if you don't feel like talking about it; but maybe it might

"I never told anybody but Simon," said Mrs. Meserve. "I never felt as if it was wise perhaps. I didn't know

what folks might think. So many don't believe in anything they can't understand, that they might think my

mind wasn't right. Simon advised me not to talk about it. He said he didn't believe it was anything

supernatural, but he had to own up that he couldn't give any explanation for it to save his life. He had to own

up that he didn't believe anybody could. Then he said he wouldn't talk about it. He said lots of folks would

sooner tell folks my head wasn't right than to own up they couldn't see through it."

"I'm sure I wouldn't say so," returned Mrs. Emerson reproachfully. "You know better than that, I hope."

Mrs. Emerson took up her dress skirt again; Mrs. Meserve hooked up another loop of blue wool. Then she

"Of course," said she, "I ain't going to say positively that I believe or disbelieve in ghosts, but all I tell you is

what I saw. I can't explain it. I don't pretend I can, for I can't. If you can, well and good; I shall be glad, for it

will stop tormenting me as it has done and always will otherwise. There hasn't been a day nor a night since it

happened that I haven't thought of it, and always I have felt the shivers go down my back when I did."

"Ain't it? Well, it happened before I was married, when I was a girl and lived in East Wilmington. It was the

first year I lived there. You know my family all died five years before that. I told you."

"Well, I went there to teach school, and I went to board with a Mrs. Amelia Dennison and her sister, Mrs.

Bird. Abby, her name wasAbby Bird. She was a widow; she had never had any children. She had a little

moneyMrs. Dennison didn't have anyand she had come to East Wilmington and bought the house they

lived in. It was a real pretty house, though it was very old and run down. It had cost Mrs. Bird a good deal to

put it in order. I guess that was the reason they took me to board. I guess they thought it would help along a

little. I guess what I paid for my board about kept us all in victuals. Mrs. Bird had enough to live on if they

were careful, but she had spent so much fixing up the old house that they must have been a little pinched for

"Anyhow, they took me to board, and I thought I was pretty lucky to get in there. I had a nice room, big and

sunny and furnished pretty, the paper and paint all new, and everything as neat as wax. Mrs. Dennison was

one of the best cooks I ever saw, and I had a little stove in my room, and there was always a nice fire there

when I got home from school. I thought I hadn't been in such a nice place since I lost my own home, until I

"I had been there about three weeks before I found it out, though I guess it had been going on ever since they

had been in the house, and that was most four months. They hadn't said anything about it, and I didn't

wonder, for there they had just bought the house and been to so much expense and trouble fixing it up.

"Well, I went there in September. I begun my school the first Monday. I remember it was a real cold fall,

there was a frost the middle of September, and I had to put on my winter coat. I remember when I came home

that night (let me see, I began school on a Monday, and that was two weeks from the next Thursday), I took

off my coat downstairs and laid it on the table in the front entry. It was a real nice coatheavy black

broadcloth trimmed with fur; I had had it the winter before. Mrs. Bird called after me as I went upstairs that I

ought not to leave it in the front entry for fear somebody might come in and take it, but I only laughed and

"Well, though it was hardly the middle of September, it was a real cold night. I remember my room faced

west, and the sun was getting low, and the sky was a pale yellow and purple, just as you see it sometimes in

the winter when there is going to be a cold snap. I rather think that was the night the frost came the first time.

I know Mrs. Dennison covered up some flowers she had in the front yard, anyhow. I remember looking out

and seeing an old green plaid shawl of hers over the verbena bed. There was a fire in my little woodstove.

Mrs. Bird made it, I know. She was a real motherly sort of woman; she always seemed to be the happiest

when she was doing something to make other folks happy and comfortable. Mrs. Dennison told me she had

always been so. She said she had coddled her husband within an inch of his life. 'It's lucky Abby never had

"Well, that night I sat down beside my nice little fire and ate an apple. There was a plate of nice apples on my

table. Mrs. Bird put them there. I was always very fond of apples. Well, I sat down and ate an apple, and was

having a beautiful time, and thinking how lucky I was to have got board in such a place with such nice folks,

when I heard a queer little sound at my door. It was such a little hesitating sort of sound that it sounded more

like a fumble than a knock, as if some one very timid, with very little hands, was feeling along the door, not

quite daring to knock. For a minute I thought it was a mouse. But I waited and it came again, and then I made

"But nobody came in, and then presently I heard the knock again. Then I got up and opened the door,

"Well, I opened the door, and the first thing I noticed was a draught of cold air, as if the front door downstairs

was open, but there was a strange close smell about the cold draught. It smelled more like a cellar that had

been shut up for years, than outofdoors. Then I saw something. I saw my coat first. The thing that held it

was so small that I couldn't see much of anything else. Then I saw a little white face with eyes so scared and

wishful that they seemed as if they might eat a hole in anybody's heart. It was a dreadful little face, with

something about it which made it different from any other face on earth, but it was so pitiful that somehow it

did away a good deal with the dreadfulness. And there were two little hands spotted purple with the cold,

holding up my winter coat, and a strange little faraway voice said: 'I can't find my mother.'

"All the time I could smell the cold and I saw that it was about the child; that cold was clinging to her as if

she had come out of some deadly cold place. Well, I took my coat, I did not know what else to do, and the

cold was clinging to that. It was as cold as if it had come off ice. When I had the coat I could see the child

more plainly. She was dressed in one little white garment made very simply. It was a nightgown, only very

long, quite covering her feet, and I could see dimly through it her little thin body mottled purple with the

cold. Her face did not look so cold; that was a clear waxen white. Her hair was dark, but it looked as if it

might be dark only because it was so damp, almost wet, and might really be light hair. It clung very close to

her forehead, which was round and white. She would have been very beautiful if she had not been so

"'What are you?' says I. Then she went away. She did not seem to run or walk like other children. She flitted,

like one of those little filmy white butterflies, that don't seem like real ones they are so light, and move as if

they had no weight. But she looked back from the head of the stairs. 'I can't find my mother,' said she, and I

"Well, I thought for a moment I should faint away. The room got dark and I heard a singing in my ears. Then

I flung my coat onto the bed. My hands were as cold as ice from holding it, and I stood in my door, and called

first Mrs. Bird and then Mrs. Dennison. I didn't dare go down over the stairs where that had gone. It seemed

to me I should go mad if I didn't see somebody or something like other folks on the face of the earth. I

thought I should never make anybody hear, but I could hear them stepping about downstairs, and I could

smell biscuits baking for supper. Somehow the smell of those biscuits seemed the only natural thing left to

keep me in my right mind. I didn't dare go over those stairs. I just stood there and called, and finally I heard

"'Come up here; come up here as quick as you can, both of you,' I screamed out; 'quick, quick, quick!'

"I heard Mrs. Bird tell Mrs. Dennison: 'Come quick, Amelia, something is the matter in Miss Arms' room.' It

struck me even then that she expressed herself rather queerly, and it struck me as very queer, indeed, when

they both got upstairs and I saw that they knew what had happened, or that they knew of what nature the

"'What is it, dear?' asked Mrs. Bird, and her pretty, loving voice had a strained sound. I saw her look at Mrs.

"'For God's sake,' says I, and I never spoke so before'for God's sake, what was it brought my coat upstairs?'

"'What was it like?' asked Mrs. Dennison in a sort of failing voice, and she looked at her sister again and her

"'It was a child I have never seen here before. It looked like a child,' says I, 'but I never saw a child so

dreadful, and it had on a nightgown, and said she couldn't find her mother. Who was it? What was it?'

"I thought for a minute Mrs. Dennison was going to faint, but Mrs. Bird hung onto her and rubbed her hands,

and whispered in her ear (she had the cooingest kind of voice), and I ran and got her a glass of cold water. I

tell you it took considerable courage to go downstairs alone, but they had set a lamp on the entry table so I

could see. I don't believe I could have spunked up enough to have gone downstairs in the dark, thinking every

second that child might be close to me. The lamp and the smell of the biscuits baking seemed to sort of keep

my courage up, but I tell you I didn't waste much time going down those stairs and out into the kitchen for a

glass of water. I pumped as if the house was afire, and I grabbed the first thing I came across in the shape of a

tumbler: it was a painted one that Mrs. Dennison's Sunday school class gave her, and it was meant for a

"Well, I filled it and then ran upstairs. I felt every minute as if something would catch my feet, and I held the

glass to Mrs. Dennison's lips, while Mrs. Bird held her head up, and she took a good long swallow, then she

"'Yes,' says I, 'I know I got this one, but I took the first I came across, and it isn't hurt a mite.'

"'Don't get the painted flowers wet,' says Mrs. Dennison very feebly, 'they'll wash off if you do.'

"'I'll be real careful,' says I. I knew she set a sight by that painted tumbler.

"The water seemed to do Mrs. Dennison good, for presently she pushed Mrs. Bird away and sat up. She had

"'I'm all over it now,' says she, but she was terribly white, and her eyes looked as if they saw something

outside things. Mrs. Bird wasn't much better, but she always had a sort of settled sweet, good look that

nothing could disturb to any great extent. I knew I looked dreadful, for I caught a glimpse of myself in the

"Mrs. Dennison, she slid off the bed and walked sort of tottery to a chair. 'I was silly to give way so,' says

"'No, you wasn't silly, sister,' says Mrs. Bird. 'I don't know what this means any more than you do, but

whatever it is, no one ought to be called silly for being overcome by anything so different from other things

"Mrs. Dennison looked at her sister, then she looked at me, then back at her sister again, and Mrs. Bird spoke

"'Yes,' says she, 'I do think Miss Arms ought to be toldthat is, I think she ought to be told all we know

"'That isn't much,' said Mrs. Dennison with a dyingaway sort of sigh. She looked as if she might faint away

again any minute. She was a real delicatelooking woman, but it turned out she was a good deal stronger than

"'No, there isn't much we do know,' says Mrs. Bird, 'but what little there is she ought to know. I felt as if she

"'Well, I didn't feel quite right about it,' said Mrs. Dennison, 'but I kept hoping it might stop, and any way,

that it might never trouble her, and you had put so much in the house, and we needed the money, and I didn't

know but she might be nervous and think she couldn't come, and I didn't want to take a man boarder.'

"'And aside from the money, we were very anxious to have you come, my dear,' says Mrs. Bird.

"'Yes,' says Mrs. Dennison, 'we wanted the young company in the house; we were lonesome, and we both of

"And I guess they meant what they said, both of them. They were beautiful women, and nobody could be any

kinder to me than they were, and I never blamed them for not telling me before, and, as they said, there

"They hadn't any sooner fairly bought the house, and moved into it, than they began to see and hear things.

Mrs. Bird said they were sitting together in the sittingroom one evening when they heard it the first time.

She said her sister was knitting lace (Mrs. Dennison made beautiful knitted lace) and she was reading the

Missionary Herald (Mrs. Bird was very much interested in mission work), when all of a sudden they heard

something. She heard it first and she laid down her Missionary Herald and listened, and then Mrs. Dennison

she saw her listening and she drops her lace. 'What is it you are listening to, Abby?' says she. Then it came

again and they both heard, and the cold shivers went down their backs to hear it, though they didn't know

"'Oh, I guess it MUST be the cat; maybe she's got a mouse,' says Mrs. Bird, real cheerful, to calm down Mrs.

Dennison, for she saw she was 'most scared to death, and she was always afraid of her fainting away. Then

she opens the door and calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' They had brought their cat with them in a basket when they

came to East Wilmington to live. It was a real handsome tiger cat, a tommy, and he knew a lot.

"Well, she called 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and sure enough the kitty came, and when he came in the door he gave a

"'There, sister, here he is; you see it was the cat,' says Mrs. Bird. 'Poor kitty!'

"'What's what?' says Mrs. Bird, pretending to herself that she didn't see what her sister meant.

"'Somethin's got hold of that cat's tail,' says Mrs. Dennison. 'Somethin's got hold of his tail. It's pulled straight

"'It isn't anything,' says Mrs. Bird, but even as she said that she could see a little hand holding fast to that cat's

tail, and then the child seemed to sort of clear out of the dimness behind the hand, and the child was sort of

laughing then, instead of looking sad, and she said that was a great deal worse. She said that laugh was the

"Well, she was so dumfounded that she didn't know what to do, and she couldn't sense at first that it was

anything supernatural. She thought it must be one of the neighbour's children who had run away and was

making free of their house, and was teasing their cat, and that they must be just nervous to feel so upset by it.

"'Don't you know that you mustn't pull the kitty's tail?' says she. 'Don't you know you hurt the poor kitty, and

"And with that she said the child stopped pulling that cat's tail and went to stroking her just as soft and pitiful,

and the cat put his back up and rubbed and purred as if he liked it. The cat never seemed a mite afraid, and

that seemed queer, for I had always heard that animals were dreadfully afraid of ghosts; but then, that was a

"Well, Mrs. Bird said the child stroked that cat, while she and Mrs. Dennison stood watching it, and holding

onto each other, for, no matter how hard they tried to think it was all right, it didn't look right. Finally Mrs.

"Then the child looks up and stops stroking the cat, and says she can't find her mother, just the way she said it

to me. Then Mrs. Dennison she gave such a gasp that Mrs. Bird thought she was going to faint away, but she

didn't. 'Well, who is your mother?' says she. But the child just says again 'I can't find my motherI can't find

"Well, that was the way it was. Nothing happened. Those two women stood there hanging onto each other,

and the child stood in front of them, and they asked her questions, and everything she would say was: 'I can't

"Then Mrs. Bird tried to catch hold of the child, for she thought in spite of what she saw that perhaps she was

nervous and it was a real child, only perhaps not quite right in its head, that had run away in her little

"She tried to catch the child. She had an idea of putting a shawl around it and going outshe was such a

little thing she could have carried her easy enoughand trying to find out to which of the neighbours she

belonged. But the minute she moved toward the child there wasn't any child there; there was only that little

voice seeming to come from nothing, saying 'I can't find my mother,' and presently that died away.

"Well, that same thing kept happening, or something very much the same. Once in awhile Mrs. Bird would be

washing dishes, and all at once the child would be standing beside her with the dishtowel, wiping them. Of

course, that was terrible. Mrs. Bird would wash the dishes all over. Sometimes she didn't tell Mrs. Dennison,

it made her so nervous. Sometimes when they were making cake they would find the raisins all picked over,

and sometimes little sticks of kindlingwood would be found laying beside the kitchen stove. They never

knew when they would come across that child, and always she kept saying over and over that she couldn't

find her mother. They never tried talking to her, except once in awhile Mrs. Bird would get desperate and ask

her something, but the child never seemed to hear it; she always kept right on saying that she couldn't find her

"After they had told me all they had to tell about their experience with the child, they told me about the house

and the people that had lived there before they did. It seemed something dreadful had happened in that house.

And the land agent had never let on to them. I don't think they would have bought it if he had, no matter how

cheap it was, for even if folks aren't really afraid of anything, they don't want to live in houses where such

dreadful things have happened that you keep thinking about them. I know after they told me I should never

have stayed there another night, if I hadn't thought so much of them, no matter how comfortable I was made;

and I never was nervous, either. But I stayed. Of course, it didn't happen in my room. If it had I could not

"It was an awful thing. That child had lived in the house with her father and mother two years before. They

had comeor the father hadfrom a real good family. He had a good situation: he was a drummer for a big

leather house in the city, and they lived real pretty, with plenty to do with. But the mother was a real wicked

woman. She was as handsome as a picture, and they said she came from good sort of people enough in

Boston, but she was bad clean through, though she was real pretty spoken and most everybody liked her. She

used to dress out and make a great show, and she never seemed to take much interest in the child, and folks

"The woman had a hard time keeping a girl. For some reason one wouldn't stay. They would leave and then

talk about her awfully, telling all kinds of things. People didn't believe it at first; then they began to. They

said that the woman made that little thing, though she wasn't much over five years old, and small and babyish

for her age, do most of the work, what there was done; they said the house used to look like a pigsty when

she didn't have help. They said the little thing used to stand on a chair and wash dishes, and they'd seen her

carrying in sticks of wood most as big as she was many a time, and they'd heard her mother scolding her. The

"The father was away most of the time, and when that happened he had been away out West for some weeks.

There had been a married man hanging about the mother for some time, and folks had talked some; but they

weren't sure there was anything wrong, and he was a man very high up, with money, so they kept pretty still

for fear he would hear of it and make trouble for them, and of course nobody was sure, though folks did say

"But that was very easy to say; it wouldn't have been so easy to find anybody who would have been willing to

tell him such a thing as that, especially when they weren't any too sure. He set his eyes by his wife, too. They

said all he seemed to think of was to earn money to buy things to deck her out in. And he about worshiped the

child, too. They said he was a real nice man. The men that are treated so bad mostly are real nice men. I've

"Well, one morning that man that there had been whispers about was missing. He had been gone quite a

while, though, before they really knew that he was missing, because he had gone away and told his wife that

he had to go to New York on business and might be gone a week, and not to worry if he didn't get home, and

not to worry if he didn't write, because he should be thinking from day to day that he might take the next train

home and there would be no use in writing. So the wife waited, and she tried not to worry until it was two

days over the week, then she run into a neighbour's and fainted dead away on the floor; and then they made

inquiries and found out that he had skippedwith some money that didn't belong to him, too.

"Then folks began to ask where was that woman, and they found out by comparing notes that nobody had

seen her since the man went away; but three or four women remembered that she had told them that she

thought of taking the child and going to Boston to visit her folks, so when they hadn't seen her around, and

the house shut, they jumped to the conclusion that was where she was. They were the neighbours that lived

right around her, but they didn't have much to do with her, and she'd gone out of her way to tell them about

"Well, there was this house shut up, and the man and woman missing and the child. Then all of a sudden one

of the women that lived the nearest remembered something. She remembered that she had waked up three

nights running, thinking she heard a child crying somewhere, and once she waked up her husband, but he said

it must be the Bisbees' little girl, and she thought it must be. The child wasn't well and was always crying. It

used to have colic spells, especially at night. So she didn't think any more about it until this came up, then all

of a sudden she did think of it. She told what she had heard, and finally folks began to think they had better

"Well, they did enter it, and they found that child dead, locked in one of the rooms. (Mrs. Dennison and Mrs.

"Yes, they found that poor child there, starved to death, and frozen, though they weren't sure she had frozen

to death, for she was in bed with clothes enough to keep her pretty warm when she was alive. But she had

been there a week, and she was nothing but skin and bone. It looked as if the mother had locked her into the

house when she went away, and told her not to make any noise for fear the neighbours would hear her and

"Mrs. Dennison said she couldn't really believe that the woman had meant to have her own child starved to

death. Probably she thought the little thing would raise somebody, or folks would try to get in the house and

"But that wasn't all. The father came home, right in the midst of it; the child was just buried, and he was

beside himself. Andhe went on the track of his wife, and he found her, and he shot her dead; it was in all

the papers at the time; then he disappeared. Nothing had been seen of him since. Mrs. Dennison said that she

thought he had either made way with himself or got out of the country, nobody knew, but they did know there

"'I knew folks acted queer when they asked me how I liked it when we first came here,' says Mrs. Dennison,

"I never heard anything like it in my life," said Mrs. Emerson, staring at the other woman with awestruck

"I thought you'd say so," said Mrs. Meserve. "You don't wonder that I ain't disposed to speak light when I

"Yes, I saw it a number of times before the last time. It was lucky I wasn't nervous, or I never could have

stayed there, much as I liked the place and much as I thought of those two women; they were beautiful

women, and no mistake. I loved those women. I hope Mrs. Dennison will come and see me sometime.

"Well, I stayed, and I never knew when I'd see that child. I got so I was very careful to bring everything of

mine upstairs, and not leave any little thing in my room that needed doing, for fear she would come lugging

up my coat or hat or gloves or I'd find things done when there'd been no live being in the room to do them. I

can't tell you how I dreaded seeing her; and worse than the seeing her was the hearing her say, 'I can't find my

mother.' It was enough to make your blood run cold. I never heard a living child cry for its mother that was

"She used to come and say that to Mrs. Bird oftener than to any one else. Once I heard Mrs. Bird say she

wondered if it was possible that the poor little thing couldn't really find her mother in the other world, she had

"But Mrs. Dennison told her she didn't think she ought to speak so nor even think so, and Mrs. Bird said she

shouldn't wonder if she was right. Mrs. Bird was always very easy to put in the wrong. She was a good

woman, and one that couldn't do things enough for other folks. It seemed as if that was what she lived on. I

don't think she was ever so scared by that poor little ghost, as much as she pitied it, and she was 'most

heartbroken because she couldn't do anything for it, as she could have done for a live child.

"'It seems to me sometimes as if I should die if I can't get that awful little white robe off that child and get her

in some clothes and feed her and stop her looking for her mother,' I heard her say once, and she was in

"Now I am coming to the strangest part of it all. Mrs. Bird died very sudden. One morningit was Saturday,

and there wasn't any schoolI went downstairs to breakfast, and Mrs. Bird wasn't there; there was nobody

but Mrs. Dennison. She was pouring out the coffee when I came in. 'Why, where's Mrs. Bird?' says I.

"'Abby ain't feeling very well this morning,' says she; 'there isn't much the matter, I guess, but she didn't sleep

very well, and her head aches, and she's sort of chilly, and I told her I thought she'd better stay in bed till the

"'Yes, I guess she has,' says Mrs. Dennison. 'I guess she's got cold. She'll be up before long. Abby ain't one to

"Well, we went on eating our breakfast, and all at once a shadow flickered across one wall of the room and

over the ceiling the way a shadow will sometimes when somebody passes the window outside. Mrs.

Dennison and I both looked up, then out of the window; then Mrs. Dennison she gives a scream.

"'Why, Abby's crazy!' says she. 'There she is out this bitter cold morning, andand' She didn't finish, but

she meant the child. For we were both looking out, and we saw, as plain as we ever saw anything in our lives,

Mrs. Abby Bird walking off over the white snowpath with that child holding fast to her hand, nestling close

"'She's dead,' says Mrs. Dennison, clutching hold of me hard. 'She's dead; my sister is dead!'

"She was. We hurried upstairs as fast as we could go, and she was dead in her bed, and smiling as if she was

dreaming, and one arm and hand was stretched out as if something had hold of it; and it couldn't be

"No," replied Mrs. Meserve; "that child was never seen again after she went out of the yard with Mrs. Bird."