Two days after the accident which had caused Mrs. Warfield to return to her farmhouse with nerves so disturbed by terror, pain and grief that she was ill for several weeks, little Hilda Brinsfield was playing under the shade of an apple tree in the garden back of the cottage of Mrs. Ashley, it being one of the ideal days frequently enjoyed even in early spring.

“Hilda,” called a subdued voice from the window, “come in, dear, and stay by your aunt while I get supper.”

The little girl made no response, but laying her doll upon the bank beside her, she took up a book and applied herself diligently to spelling the words of three letters which described the gay pictures.

“Hilda!” And now Diana Strong was sitting beside her with one of her little hands in hers.

“Oh, child,” she said in an endearing tone, “you will regret it some day that you are not willing to leave your play to sit a few minutes beside the sweet lady who loves you so dearly! Come now, come!”

A frown darkened the fair brow of the child, and, throwing the book upon the ground, her foot came down upon it with a quick, angry stamp.

Diana said no more, but taking her and the doll in her strong arms carried her to the house in spite of her struggles for release, and, putting her down by the door of Mrs. Ashley’s room, gently pushed her in. Ill as she was, the flashing eyes and flushed cheeks of the little girl attracted the attention of Mrs. Ashley, and she sighed deeply.

“My darling is angry again,” she said feebly. “Who will take care of her and teach her self-control?”

“Diana made me leave my new book,” replied Hilda tearfully. “She held me so tight in her arms that it hurt me, and I could not get loose. Send her away, Aunt Janette, I don’t like her! Please send her away!”

A look of pain came into the sweet face of Mrs. Ashley and she clasped her hands as if in supplication.

“Diana is very tired,” she said after a pause. “She has lost much sleep in the week that I have been ill.”

“I am tired, too, and want my supper,” responded Hilda fretfully.

“Diana will soon have a nice supper for you, and while she is preparing it you can lie down beside me and rest.”

Hilda was willing for this; she pushed a chair to the bedside, and, still clasping the doll in one arm, crept in.

The setting sun glowed ruddily through the western window, and the ticking of the clock upon the mantel, and the purring of the kitten before the smouldering wood fire upon the hearth were the only sounds which broke the stillness of the pleasant room.

“Your father named you Hilda for your sweet, young mother,” said Mrs. Ashley, taking the child’s hand in hers. “He loved his little daughter so tenderly that he gave her her mother’s name. She was lovely in disposition and patient, and I hope my little Hilda will be like her.”

“Where are my father and mother now?”

“In heaven, my darling, where I hope soon to be with them and your dear Uncle Ashley.”

“When will I go?”

“In God’s own good time. Try to live each day aright, and then you will have a home with them and never be parted from them.”

“Who will stay with me when you go?”

“My sister, Sarah Warfield, I hope. I have prayed for that, and God answers prayer.”

“Why doesn’t she write to you? You said you wanted a letter.”

“Why not, oh, why not?” echoed Mrs. Ashley. “I do so long for a word from her.”

“But I would rather go to heaven with you and my father and mother. What is heaven?”

“It is a beautiful home where we will live forever.”

“And will we never come back?”

“No, we will be so happy we will never wish to come.”

“Oh, I want to go now! Take me with you, Aunt Janette, to see my father and mother and Uncle Ashley!”

“Be patient, my love, and you will come. I cannot talk any more now; I am very weak, but will speak of it again when rested. I hope you will be polite and obedient to Diana; she is good and kind. What would we do without her?”

Hilda was silent, her thoughts busy with what she had just heard. Where was heaven? How could she get there? And what was being patient?

Diana had made good speed in preparing the evening meal, and brought a cup of tea and a slice of cream toast, daintily served, to the invalid.

“Any letter?” inquired Mrs. Ashley, eagerly scanning the countenance of the nurse as she drew near.

“No,” replied Diana sadly. “Mr. Merryman’s errand boy, Perry, passed just now on his way from the postoffice. I ran out and asked him if he had a letter for you, but there was none. I hoped you would not ask until you had taken your tea.”

“Oh, Diana, two letters unanswered! Sister Sarah is surely ill or she would write to me, whether she had received my letters or not. I know that she has much on her mind with the care of her two boys and the farming, and Ohio is some distance from here, but the reply to even my last letter has had time to reach me.”

“Yes, there has been time,” agreed Diana sympathizingly.

“She and my brother Herbert were opposed to my marriage to Mr. Ashley, but they were always loving and kind. They wrote affectionate letters to me as soon as they received my letter telling them that my husband had fallen in battle, and Sarah offered me a home with her, and said to bring Hilda. She was glad that I intended adopting her as my own, and said she would be much company for me.”

“Yes, anyone would think so,” agreed Diana as she drew a stand to the bedside and arranged the toast and tea upon it.

“I do not wish any tea, Diana. I had so hoped for a letter. Surely Sarah must write and give me the comfort of knowing that she will take Hilda when I am gone!”

“I am sure she will; we must give her time,” answered Diana, soothingly.

“But Sarah is always prompt; a noble, active, Christian woman. There is no one on earth that I can look to but her, to train Hilda as she should be trained. Oh, if she would but write and give me the assurance! but I fear that Mr. Courtney did not tell her in the letter he wrote for me how ill I am;” and tears of anxiety and longing filled her beautiful eyes.

“Mr. Courtney said he would state the case exactly as it is, and ministers should do as they promise.”

“Yes, Diana, so should we all; but you remember my heart troubled me so little that day that I fear he was deceived. You said yourself that I was the picture of health with my bright eyes, the flush upon my cheeks and lips, and my natural appearance in every way. Oh, I fear he gave Sarah the impression that there was no need of haste!”

“But you told him there was; he would be guided by what you said and not by how you looked.”

“I believe that Dr. Lattinger is also deceived by my appearance, but I knew when I took ill that I would not get well, and if it were not for my anxiety in regard to Hilda I would be glad to go. Heaven seems very near to me; I have so many loved ones there, so few on earth.”

“I was thinking, ma’am,” remarked Diana, “that maybe your sister is coming, and that is the reason she does not write.”

A gleam of joy illumined Mrs. Ashley’s face, and she partly arose and stretched out her arms as if to welcome her.

“Oh, Diana,” she whispered, sinking back upon the pillow, “that would be such a happy thing; God grant that it may be so!”

“You say that she is prompt in her ways; she may not have waited to write, knowing that she could reach here as quickly as could a letter,” she said comfortingly.

“Yes, Diana,” smiled Mrs. Ashley, “that is the reason she does not write. She is coming! Dear heavenly Father,” she continued, putting her small white hand upon the head of Hilda, “grant my heartfelt petition that this loved child be a consistent Christian, and may her home and that of Sarah Warfield be one and the same.”

Cheered by this hope and trust, Mrs. Ashley partook of the toast and tea with relish, and laid her head again upon the pillow with the smiling, happy expression of one who had never known pain or trial, causing Diana to again wonder that the week’s illness had made no change in her beauty.

“I feel so much better, Diana,” she said cheerfully. “Do you and Hilda go and take your tea together; do not mind leaving me alone. I have pleasant thoughts to keep me company. I shall see my sister—Sarah—Warfield—in the—morning.”

The kitchen where the supper was prepared looked very bright and cheery to the little girl and the light tea biscuits, sweet butter and honey were delicious to her taste. She enjoyed the meal, then fell asleep in the chair where Diana let her remain until all was put in order for the night, then prepared her for rest and laid her beside Mrs. Ashley, who appeared to be in a sweet sleep.

Her own cot was in an opposite corner of the room, and after fastening the outer door she lighted the night lamp, shading it from the sick bed, then, as was her custom, lay down without removing her clothing that she might be ready at any minute to wait upon the invalid.

She had, she thought, scarcely slept, when she was waked by a rap upon the outer door of the kitchen, and arose quickly that Mrs. Ashley might not be disturbed by a second knock.

What was her astonishment on opening the door to see the eastern horizon tinged with a ruddy glow, betokening sunrise!

“How is Mrs. Ashley this morning?” asked Dr. Lattinger as he stepped over the sill.

“She must have slept all night; I did not hear her speak or stir,” replied Diana in bewilderment.

The doctor made no remark, but passed quickly through to the other room, followed by Diana bearing the lighted lamp.

“She has been dead several hours,” he said, taking the lifeless hand in his.

“Oh, doctor, do not think I neglected her!” exclaimed Diana, with blanched face and trembling with grief and excitement. “She was so much better last evening and ate a slice of toast and drank a cup of tea. Oh, how I wish now I had not lain down!”

“You were worn out with watching and should not have been left alone,” said Dr. Lattinger kindly.

“Any of the neighbors would have come had I asked it. I did not have an idea that anyone was needed.”

“Who would you like to have with you? I will call any place you specify. In the meantime it would be better to remove the little girl to the cot, that she may not know when first waking that her aunt is gone.”

“I will, doctor; and if you are going out upon your rounds please call at ‘Friedenheim’ and ask Mrs. Courtney to come. Mrs. Ashley admired her, and said she reminded her of her sister, Mrs. Warfield.”

“I am on my way home and have just passed ‘Friedenheim;’ but it will be no trouble to drive back and tell Mrs. Courtney, and I hope she can come.”

Dr. Lattinger left and Diana removed Hilda to the cot, then sat by the bedside of Mrs. Ashley and wept without restraint.

It took but a few minutes for the doctor to reach the lane gate that led to the main entrance of “Friedenheim.”

His ring of the door bell was answered by Mose, who informed him that Mrs. Courtney was suffering with sick headache and was unable to go.

Disappointed, Dr. Lattinger turned away and in a few minutes reached home, where he sat down to breakfast, weary and listless, having been all night beside a sick bed.

“Diana Strong needs someone to assist her this morning,” he said, when a good cup of coffee had refreshed him. “Mrs. Ashley died during the night and Diana is there alone. I called at ‘Friedenheim’ to ask Mrs. Courtney to go, but she is in bed with one of her attacks of sick headache, and it is impossible for her to give aid.”

“Of course, Diana feels the responsibility,” rejoined Mrs. Lattinger. “Mrs. Ashley had no relatives and her reserved disposition prevented her making acquaintances. ‘My Lady’s Manor’ was the only place she visited, and after Anna Ashburton left it she had not one whom she could call a friend. I wonder why Diana selected Mrs. Courtney?”

“She said that Mrs. Ashley admired her greatly, and said she reminded her of her sister, Mrs. Warfield.”

“I doubt, however, if Mrs. Courtney could have done what will be required. A burial robe will have to be made unless Diana sends to Baltimore for one.”

“I think she is at a loss to know what to do. Perhaps you can go down and advise her. She is depending upon me to send someone.”

“I cannot possibly go from home to-day, for I have invited Mrs. Merryman and Mrs. Watkins to luncheon, and Jerusha Flint is coming this morning to cut and fit a dress for me, and if I disappoint her she would take pleasure in refusing to come another day.”

“If she can make burial dresses perhaps she would go and help Diana.”

“No one could be of more help than Jerusha in every way, if she will go. And I will be glad to postpone my work until another day.”

“Well, see that someone goes,” said the doctor, as he arose and went to his office, and at that moment a light, brisk step was heard upon the porch, followed by a sharp peal of the bell.

“There she is now,” thought Mrs. Lattinger, as she arose to admit Jerusha. “I will tell her before she lays aside her bonnet.”

The moment the door opened Jerusha, erect, neat, and with perfectly fitting walking dress, stepped in, her eyes like black beads and her cheeks flushed from her mile walk in the clear morning air.

“Where is my pay to come from?” she asked sharply, when Mrs. Lattinger made the situation known. “There is no charge for making a burial dress for a neighbor, and I cannot afford to lose my day.”

“The doctor feels it incumbent to send someone, having promised Diana. I suppose there is money in the house; if not, we will see that you are paid for it.”

“That settles it!” responded Miss Flint, promptly, and, turning abruptly, she left the house and walked with her usual dispatch down the road, looking neither to the right nor to the left until she reached the cottage.

Diana was still alone, with the exception of Hilda, who was taking her breakfast, and her face clouded at sight of Miss Flint.

“Mrs. Courtney is sick and could not come,” explained Jerusha, reading Diana’s face like an open book, “and Mrs. Lattinger took it upon herself to ask me to come, so I am that accommodating individual known as ‘Jack-in-a-Pinch’; what’s to be done now that I am here?”

“I don’t know; that is why I wished someone to come.”

“Has no patient that you have nursed died until now?”

“Yes, but there were always plenty of relatives and friends to make arrangements; my duty was done and I went home.”

“Well, the first thing I will do is to lay aside my hat and cape, seeing the lady of the house is not polite enough to ask me.”

“Oh, please excuse me!” said Diana, reddening; “I really forgot it.”

“No harm done,” said Miss Flint, as she shook her cape with a vigorous snap, folded it and placed it on the pillow of the lounge and laid her hat upon it. “Had she no relatives?”

Miss Flint had nodded toward the other room while smoothing her raven hair with the palms of her hands until it shone like satin, and Diana had no difficulty in understanding.

“Yes, she has a brother and sister in Ohio. Her sister, Mrs. Warfield, has been written to twice, but has not answered either letter. They were opposed to her marrying Mr. Ashley; she told me so herself, last evening, poor dear;” and Diana’s eyes filled at the remembrance.

“No wonder they were opposed,” commented Miss Flint as she glanced about the neat but simply furnished room. “If she had possessed the common sense that a woman of her appearance should have had, she would have been opposed, too.”

“It may be that they won’t pay any attention to her, or it may be that Mrs. Warfield is on her way here,” resumed Diana. “I do hope she is, for I want to get away. I feel it such a responsibility.”

“What is to be done with her?” asked Miss Flint, nodding toward Hilda. “She will be in our way.”

“I might stop the miller’s children on their way to school and ask them to take Hilda home with them, or ask one of them to come here for company for her; their mother will, I am sure, oblige in a case like this.”

“Let her go there, for mercy’s sake!” responded Jerusha sharply. “We will have two to bother with if one of them comes here.”

“There they come now!” said Diana. “I will run out and ask them.”

Fortune favored; one of the children was glad to return home and take Hilda with her, and Miss Flint was gratified to hear that the miller’s family would keep her until after the funeral; and the way was now clear for business.

“Now if Mrs. Warfield would come, how thankful I would be!” sighed Diana as she set aside the remains of the breakfast.

“But we cannot wait for that. What is to be done about a burial dress?”

“I don’t know,” responded Diana anxiously. “Do you take the lead and I will help you all I can.”

“What I want to know is, will it be made here, or bought ready made in Baltimore?” questioned Miss Flint sharply.

“I really cannot decide. Which do you advise?”

“That depends upon circumstances. What is there in the house?”

“Do you mean money?”

“Yes, money or clothes, or material to make a burial dress of,” snapped Miss Jerusha impatiently.

“There is a bureau in her room with her clothing in two of the drawers; the third one is locked; I don’t know what is in it.”

“Where is the key?”

“In the upper drawer in a little box.”

“We can soon see; come!”

“I really cannot; not while she is in there,” said Diana, shrinkingly.

“Why, there is where she will have to be until taken to the grave; you certainly are not thinking of having her brought out here?”

“Oh, no; but it seems so hard to go in and unlock her bureau when she is unable to prevent us.”

“We don’t want to be prevented. Somebody must attend to this; come along and give me the key.”

They went, Diana shading her eyes from the still form on the bed. The drawer was unlocked and a white cashmere burial robe was found, covered by a sheet of white tissue paper.

“Just as I expected the moment you told me that the lower drawer was locked,” remarked Miss Flint. “She was exactly the woman to prepare for this in order to be independent of her neighbors. Well, it saves a day’s work, so I am not the one to complain.”

Sustained by the self-reliance of her companion, Diana became of “some use,” as Miss Flint expressed it, and did as directed with many a longing to be away from it all.

The beautiful form of Mrs. Ashley was neatly arrayed in the robe and Diana waited for further orders.

“Give me a pair of scissors and I will cut off a lock of her hair; her sister may want it. But stop, you need not go! I have mine with me.”

“I don’t see how you can bear to cut off her hair,” said Diana nervously, as the snip, snip of the scissors fell upon her ear.

“It is lovely,” commented Miss Flint as she held up a glossy tress, “and it curls naturally.”

“Yes, many a rich woman would give half she possesses for such a splendid head of hair, and could envy her in many ways. Mrs. Lattinger said she was a lovely young creature when she came as a bride to Dorton, and has changed very little since. Now she looks like one of the beautiful marble statues in the Peabody Institute, if it were not for the long, dark lashes resting upon her cheeks.”

“She was a beauty and no mistake, but as proud as Lucifer. Pride and poverty killed that woman, or my name is not Jerusha Flint.”

“She was always kind and gentle and polite to me,” responded Diana tearfully.

“Polite, oh certainly! But she made you know your place, I’ll warrant. I wonder that one as proud as she was would marry a poor artist. Now you can fix her hair the way she wore it, and while you are doing it I will watch at the gate for someone who can be trusted to send the undertaker.”

“Oh, please don’t leave me!” exclaimed Diana, dropping the comb. “Do you stay here and let me watch at the gate.”

“Well, you are the poorest creature I ever did see. You are not afraid of her, are you?” asked Jerusha derisively.

“Oh, no, but I feel so nervous. If I had kept awake last night and known if she needed anything I would not feel so miserable.”

“Kept awake!” echoed her companion in astonishment. “I hope you don’t mean to say that you let her die alone?”

“She passed away while I was asleep,” said Diana humbly. “I thought her so much better!”

“Thought her better, and you a trained nurse, calling yourself a watcher; a professional, if you please!”

“You cannot make me feel more self-condemned than I am,” sighed Diana tearfully, “but I have the comfort of knowing that if she could speak she would grant me her forgiveness. She was a saint on earth if ever there was one.”

“I fail to see how she could be with all that pride; she scarcely noticed me.”

“I am sure it was not pride. She was very retiring in disposition, and the neighbors may not have tried to make her acquaintance.”

“Because she showed by her manner that she considered herself above us. No one suited her highness except Mrs. Farnsworth and Anna and Mrs. Courtney; and it is plain to be seen that their elegant homes were the attraction. I wonder that she was so anxious to be friends with them when her home was so poor.”

“But all is comfortable and pretty,” replied Diana glancing about her, “and she kept it in beautiful order.”

“Well, what she did and what she did not do is no concern of ours. What we have to do is to bow these shutters and sit down and wait for someone to go for the undertaker.”

Diana went outside to watch, and while she was gone Miss Flint stood in the doorway between the rooms and took a look over the objects of beauty and utility contained therein, and over her grim lips passed a satisfied smile.

“Yes,” she said to herself, “it is the very plan; and trust Jerusha Flint to carry out any scheme she determines upon. Yes, it shall be done!”

Diana in the meantime had unhooked the shutters, bowed them, and returned with the intelligence that Perry had been sent over by Mrs. Merryman to offer his services, and had gone to Dorton to see the undertaker, and, that care removed, they could think of other things.

“What time will you set for the funeral?” asked Diana.

“That will depend upon Mr. Courtney. If he can preach the sermon to-morrow afternoon that will be the time to appoint. I will go over to ‘Friedenheim’ after the undertaker has been here and ask him.”

“But isn’t that very soon? She died only—”

“You were asleep and know nothing about it,” interrupted Jerusha sarcastically. “What would be the use of waiting for her sister who has not set a time for coming? And there is no one in the neighborhood who cares when she is buried.”

Perry had returned and, to the relief of Diana, could remain as long as wanted, so the moment the undertaker departed Miss Flint hurried to “Friedenheim,” saw Rev. Courtney, who made it convenient to conduct the services the following afternoon, and thus far the plan was working well.

Her next call was upon the owner of the cottage, who was willing to allow her to live there in Mrs. Ashley’s place, the rent having been paid by the year, and she returned in exuberant spirits.

“I will tell you what I have been doing,” she said, her black eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing with the brisk walk. “There is no one to care for Hilda, so I will stay here until Mrs. Warfield comes.”

“Oh, that is so kind of you!” said Diana eagerly. “I never for a moment thought you would stay. I thought you had such a good home with my sister-in-law and your brother.”

“There is where I stop,” replied Miss Flint with emphasis. “I told Horace the very day he brought his wife there that his house would be my home only while I could not have a better one. I have the chance now to have one more to my liking and am going to take it. I will stay here until Mrs. Warfield comes, and then can decide what course to take.”

In her own mind she did not believe that Mrs. Warfield would ever come, but she kept her opinion to herself.

“Hilda is no relation of Mrs. Warfield’s, I think you said,” she remarked after a pause.

“No, she was Mr. Ashley’s niece, not Mrs. Ashley’s; but Mrs. Warfield will surely take her when she hears that it was her sister’s last request.”

Miss Flint had another plan in her mind but she said nothing about it to Diana; and that was that as soon as the funeral was over the next afternoon, and Diana gone, she would go immediately about arranging the furniture to suit herself, and then walk to her brother’s house in the village and make arrangements with him to have her effects brought to her new abode.

All these plans fell into line at the proper place; the funeral was over, a long train of neighbors following the bier to the Dorton churchyard, but among them not one relative or near friend of the departed.

Diana remained at the cottage until Miss Flint returned; then, being as eager to leave as Jerusha was to have the house to herself, she was not slow in taking the hint that her company could be dispensed with, and left for the village.

In the kindness of her heart she went out of her way to call at the miller’s to tell Hilda of the changes in her home.

“Yes, I know,” assented the little girl; “she told me she was going to heaven and will see my father and mother and Uncle Ashley.”

“You are to go back now, Hilda,” said Diana, her eyes filling with tears. “Miss Flint is so kind as to take care of you until Mrs. Warfield comes.”

The miller’s little girl saw her safely to the cottage gate, and bade her good-bye with a parting kiss.

“What brought you here until I sent for you?” exclaimed Miss Flint angrily, as Hilda stepped in. “I am just going out.”

“Diana told me to come,” said Hilda, cowering; “she said you were so kind as to take care of me.”

“Just like the meddlesome wretch! Now I will have to stay at home or drag you along with me.”

Hilda began to cry, and Miss Flint could scarcely restrain herself from laying violent hands upon her, while every nerve thrilled.

“Stop crying instantly, or I will give you something to cry for!” she said harshly.

“I wish I were in heaven,” sobbed the child.

“You cannot wish it any more than I do! You could well be spared from here.”

Hilda raised her head and looked with earnest gaze at Miss Flint.

“What are you staring at? Get a book or something and stare at it.”

“I left my new book under the apple tree; please open the door for me.”

Her companion was glad to comply, and Hilda returned quickly with it, and, sitting in her little chair, examined it with the look of having regained a lost friend.

“I am glad you have a pretty book,” remarked Miss Flint, calling what she flattered herself was a pleasant smile to her aid. “I am going out for a little while and you must not stir from that chair until I come back;” and hastily donning her wraps she locked the door, put the key in her pocket and walked rapidly to Dorton.

After arranging for the removal of her possessions, she called to see Mrs. Lattinger to say that she would come next morning to fit the dress, and then set out for the cottage.

She considered that her absence was short, but to Hilda it appeared endless. It was growing dark and she imagined that Miss Flint had left her to pass the night alone. She was a timid child, and Miss Flint’s harshness had made her nervous, and her sobs and cries were pitiful.

She had obeyed the mandate to stay in the chair; and opposite was a lounge with cretonne cover, the ruffle of which reached the floor. She saw this ruffle move, and when something peeped out and quickly withdrew, her terror was beyond control.

Miss Flint’s anger broke forth when she found her in this state upon her return.

“How dare you act so, you spiteful creature?” she cried, shaking her violently.

“I saw something come from under the lounge,” gasped the child convulsively.

“It is a falsehood, a wicked falsehood!” and going to the lounge she raised the ruffle. “You see there is nothing under there! You are only acting this way to keep me from going out again.”

“I did see something!” screamed Hilda, stamping her foot in her excitement; “they were two black fingers.”

“Two black fingers!” echoed Miss Flint, derisively; “where are they now? They must have been alive if they moved.”

“They did move; I saw them come out and go back!”

“You little vixen!” cried Jerusha, grasping her; “if you don’t hush I will—”

A voice at the door silenced her and caused Hilda to cower in her chair.

“I was coming from Dorton,” said Perry, “and heard somebody crying, so stopped to see what was up.”

“I was out for a little while,” said Jerusha, turning scarlet, “and Hilda got frightened. She thought she saw two black fingers come from under the lounge.”

“When people are scared they see lots of things. I have, myself. You won’t see them now that Miss Jerusha is here. Good-night to you both,” and Perry went on to “Fair Meadow” and they were again by themselves.

“Now you see what your wicked story-telling has done,” exclaimed Miss Flint when Perry was out of hearing. “You see he did not believe you. Two black fingers, indeed!”

“I did see them!” screamed Hilda, flushed with excitement and passion.

“Now look here,” cried Miss Flint, pale with anger and her eyes glowing as she grasped the child’s arm, “if you say that again I will give you such a whipping as will last you a lifetime. I have a mind to do it as it is.”

Hilda cowered in her chair. She was a match for her tormentor in spirit but not in strength; she was vanquished and sat trembling with vague terror.

No more words were spoken until supper was upon the table, then Hilda was bidden to come, or not, if that suited her better, and she accepted and took her usual place, though too disturbed to do justice to the simple but well served meal.

As soon as it was finished Miss Flint put the room in order for the night, while Hilda returned to her chair and watched her quick, impatient movements.

“Come, you must go to bed now,” was the command. “I must sit down to my sewing and want you out of my way.”

“Please let the door be open; I am afraid in the dark,” pleaded the child.

“What, of the two black fingers?”

Hilda drew back shuddering and tears rushed to her eyes.

“Come along, I have no time to waste upon you. Can’t you unhook your dress?”

“Diana did it after Aunt Janette got sick. I cannot reach the hooks.”

“You are old enough to wait upon yourself and will soon find that I am not a waiting-maid for you,” and, giving an angry jerk to a refractory hook, the dress was loosened and other garments removed, and the little girl crept into the cot, which Miss Flint designated as her resting place.

“Won’t you hear me say my prayers?” she asked timidly as her care-taker was leaving the room.

“You have great need to say them. I wonder you are not afraid to go to sleep after telling such a wicked story,” and, taking the lamp, she went out, shutting the door after her.

Miss Flint sat down to her sewing in the clean and pleasant room, but she was not happy. She at last had a home of her own, but considered the incumbrance that went with it overbalanced the benefit.

She had not thought that her patrons would object to her taking Hilda to their homes in her dressmaking visits, but realized that she was mistaken, as she saw with her sister-in-law’s eyes that there would come rainy days when Hilda could not go; and if clear the child could not stand the walks she would be compelled to take if she accompanied Jerusha, nor could she be left alone in the cottage.

Weary and sad, she leaned back in her chair and reflected; and her glance happening to rest upon the curtain of the lounge, she saw it move. Jerusha was not frightened, although she was wise enough to know that there could not be an effect without a cause.

The motion was repeated; the head of a mouse peeped out and was quickly withdrawn, and she recognized one of the black fingers that had alarmed Hilda.

“Enjoy yourself all you can to-night, my lively friend,” she said to herself. “If a trap can catch you this will be the last chance you will have to frighten anybody.”

She took care, however, not to enlighten Hilda as to her discovery and for many days the child avoided the lounge, fearing the “black fingers.”