I have said that I expected Mr. Argyll to offer me a partnership, now that I was prepared to begin my legal career. In this I was not presumptuous, inasmuch as he had frequently and plainly hinted his intention. Such an arrangement would be a desirable one for me; I appreciated its many advantages; at the same time, I expected, by taking all the hard work upon myself, and by the constant devotion of such talent as I had to the interests of the firm, to repay, as far as possible, my obligations to the senior member.

When I returned from New York, I appeared in court with a case which had chanced to be intrusted to me, perhaps from the inability of my client to employ an older and more expensive lawyer. I did well with it, and was complimented by several of Mr. Argyll’s fraternity upon my success in handling the case. Much to my surprise and mortification, Mr. Argyll’s congratulations were in constrained and studied terms. He had appeared to be more formal, less open in his manner of treating me, ever since my last visit to the city. At first I thought it my fancy, or caused by some temporary ill-health, or mental trouble, under which he might be laboring. Day by day the impression deepened upon me that his feelings toward me were not what they had been. The plainest proof I had of this was, that no offer of partnership was made. I was placed in a disagreeable situation for one of my proud temperament. My studies completed to the point where admission to practice had been granted, I had nothing to do but continue in his office, reading, reading away—not but that my time was most usefully employed thus, and not that I was in any great hurry to go into business, though my income was narrow enough, and I knew that my mother had pinched her domestic arrangements to afford me that—but I began to feel like an intruder. My ostensible use of his books, office, and instructions was at an end; I began to feel like a hanger-on. Yet I could not go away, or offer to associate myself with others, hastily. I felt that he ought either to put in execution his implied promise, or to inform me that he had changed his plans, and I was free to try elsewhere.

Can any invalid tell me why he feels a prescience of the storm in his aching bones and tingling nerves while the sun still shines in a cloudless sky, and not one hint on the outward face of nature tells of a change in the weather? Neither can I explain the subtle influences which affected me, depressing me so deeply, and making me sensible of a change in that atmosphere of home which had brooded for me over the Argyll mansion. I had felt this first in the more business air of the office; gradually, it seemed to me to be creeping over the household. Mary, that sweet child of impulse, too young to assume much dignity, and too truthful to disguise her innocent face in falsehood, who had clung to me in this affliction as a sister clings to an elder brother, awakening all my tenderest instincts of protection and indulgence—this fair girl, doubly dear to me as the sister of that other woman whom I adored, began to put on an air of reserve toward me. She was kind and gentle, but she no longer ran to me with all those pretty demands and complaints, those trifling confidences, so sweet because an evidence of trust and affection; sometimes I caught her eyes fixed upon me in a sad, wondering way, which puzzled and disconcerted me; when I caught her glance, she would turn quickly, and blush.

I could not help believing, although I had no proof of it, that James was covertly working to produce an impression against me in the family. His manner toward me had never been so friendly; when we were alone together he grew quite confidential, sometimes descending to small flatteries, and almost entirely neglecting the use of those little nettles of satire with which he once delighted in stinging me whenever any one whom I esteemed was present. I could not pick a quarrel with him, had I desired it. Yet I could not rid myself of the consciousness that he was undermining my footing in the house of those friends I loved best. In what manner, it was difficult for me to conjecture. If he slandered my habits or associations, nothing could be easier than for Mr. Argyll to quietly ascertain, by inquiries unknown to myself, the truth of his statements; justice to me would require that he should take that trouble before he cast off, as unworthy his further kindness, the son of his dead friend. I could think of but one matter which he could use to my prejudice; and in that my conscience accused me loudly enough. I said to myself that he had told them of my love for Eleanor. He had torn that delicate and sacred secret from my heart, where it lay under the pitying light of God’s eye alone—discovered it through hate and jealousy, which are next to love in the keenness of their perceptions—and exposed it to those from whom I had most shrinkingly hidden it. Even then, why should they blame me, or treat me coldly, for what I could not help, and for which I alone must suffer? Certainly not for my presumption, since I had not presumed. One dreadful idea preyed upon me. It was, that, in order to rid himself of me for ever, to drive me out from the friendship of those whom he wanted to himself, for his own selfish aims, James was representing to them not only that I loved Eleanor, but that I was looking forward to the future with hopes which mocked her present desolation.

I can not describe the pain and humiliation this idea gave me. If I could have discovered it, or in any way denied it, I should not have felt so hurt and helpless. As it was, I felt that my honor was being stabbed in the dark, without a chance to defend itself—some secret enemy was wounding it, as some base assassin had planted that deadly wound in the heart of Henry Moreland.

In the mean time, the Christmas holidays were approaching. It was a season of gloom and mourning, mocked by the merry preparations of happier people. On the twenty-third day of December came Eleanor’s nineteenth birthday. It was to have been her wedding-day. A glorious winter morning dawned; the sun shone in a sapphire sky; it seemed as if every plant in the conservatory put forth double bloom—the japonicas, the white roses, were incomparable. I could not help but linger about the house. Eleanor kept herself in her room. If every word which refers to her were written in tears, it could not express the feelings with which we all were moved with the thought of her bereavement. We moved about like people in dreams, silent and abstracted. The old housekeeper, when I met her on the stairs, was wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. Mr. Argyll, unquiet and pale, wandered from room to room. The office remained closed; the front blinds of the house were shut—it was like the day of the funeral.

I went into the conservatory; there was sunshine there, and sweetness—a bright luxuriance of beauty. It was more solemn to me than the darkened parlors. I plucked a white rose, holding it idly in my fingers. It was half-past eleven—at twelve the ceremony should have been performed. Mary came in while I stood there wrapped in emotion more than thought. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, her hands trembled, and when she spoke, her lips quivered:

“She has taken out all the wedding apparel, for the first time since that day. She is dressing herself. She has put on the robe and vail; and now she has sent me down to make the bouquet. She wants some white flowers for her bosom. She stands before the mirror, putting on everything as carefully as if poor Henry—were—down-stairs. Oh, Richard,” she cried, breaking down utterly in a burst of tears, and throwing herself into my arms, “it would break your heart to see her! It almost kills me, but I must get the flowers. It is best to indulge her.”

“Yes, it is best,” I answered, soothing her as best I could, when my own voice and hands were so shaken. “I will help you. Don’t keep her waiting.”

I took the scissors from her, cutting the fairest buds, the most perfect flowers, arranging them with care and skill.

“I will tell you what she said,” continued Mary, as I hastily made up the bouquet; “she says that to-day they will be married, the same as if Henry were on earth instead of in heaven; that their vows shall be consummated at the hour appointed, and that thereafter she shall hold herself his wife just as surely as if he had come in the body to fulfill his part of the contract. She has her prayer-book open at the marriage ceremony. She looks so sweet and calm, as beautiful as if she, too, were an angel with dear Henry—only so very white, so very solemn—oh, dear, I cannot bear it!” and again I had to compose her, wiping away her tears, before I sent her up with the bouquet. As she went out into the breakfast, or family-room, which opened into the conservatory, I saw James by the door, and I knew, by the expression of his face, that he had heard what passed between us. Through a kind of alarm and vexation there was a flash of disdain, as if he wanted to say, what he dared not:

“What a fool the girl is to cling to that dust and ashes! Married, indeed! She shall be the wife of some one besides a ghost, or I lose my guess.”

“What a crotchety idea!” he said, as he caught my eye. “I never thought Eleanor would be so whimsical. She ought to have some one to exert a healthy influence over her, or she will injure herself—she surely will.”

“You ought to attempt to teach her a more practical view of life’s misfortunes. I’m afraid, however, you’ll find her a stupid pupil.”

His eye flashed into mine a triumphant gleam.

“‘Perseverance conquers all obstacles,’ the wise ones say; and I’m a persevering man, you know, Richard.”

He took up his cap and lounged out into the garden. I felt a sinking at my heart as he thus openly avowed his hopes and expectations; I could not entirely banish the heavy foreboding, even by recalling the image of the stricken girl, at that moment binding herself, in awful and mysterious companionship, with the spirit that waited for her across the portals of Time. I watched James pacing back and forth, with disquiet steps, through the frozen walks of the garden; presently he lit a cigar, and went out on the lawn, and from thence into the streets. His was one of those minds which do not like their own company when they are uneasy. How he managed to while away the day I do not know; to me it was long and oppressive; Mary remained up stairs with her sister; Mr. Argyll sat in the library with a book, which he held open but did not read. As the sun declined, I felt that a brisk walk in the cold air would be the best medicine for my drooping spirits—it was my usual remedy.

If I remember aright, I had not been in the direction of Moreland villa since that singular meeting I had there with the person who had since played so conspicuous a part in our thoughts, if not in our eyes—except twice, when I had gone with Mr. Burton through the vicinity, in hopes of tracing her from the point of her disappearance—but to-day, I mechanically chose that road, led thither by the chain of association. Snow glistened on the hilltops, the shores of the river were skirted with ice, though its central current still rolled bluely between those crystal walls. It was sunset when I began my walk; before I reached the villa, the pink flush was fading from the snowy summits; one large star, preternaturally bright, hung over the turrets of the lonely house, shining through the flush of twilight; gray shadows stretched over the barren hillsides, and a cold steel-blue tinged the ice in the river. How desolate the place looked, stripped of its summer garments! I leaned over the gate, while the night approached, making a picture of how the villa would have appeared at this hour, had that which had happened not happened. It would have been a blaze of light, full of flowers and feasting, and alive with happy human creatures. It had been the intention of the young couple to go immediately to their new home, after the wedding-breakfast, and to begin their housekeeping with a reception of their friends that same evening. Instead of warmth and light, gay laughter and music, rolling carriages and prancing horses, feasting, congratulations, love, beauty and happiness, there was silence and desertion, oh, how appalling! I could not bear the contrast between what was and what should have been.

Before returning to the village I thought I would call upon the gardener’s wife, Mrs. Scott, and inquire if she had any tidings of Miss Sullivan; though I knew very well that if she had, she would have let me heard them without waiting for a visit from me. I had grown chilly, leaning so long over the gate, after my rapid walk, and the glow through the window of the little cottage standing at the back of the kitchen-garden, looked inviting. I made my way around to the gate at the back of the premises, and was soon knocking at the door. I had heard Mrs. Scott singing her baby to sleep as I approached the house; but after I knocked there was silence, yet no one answered the summons.

I knocked thrice, the last time rather imperatively, for I was chilly, and did not like waiting so long, when I knew I must be heard. At this the door was opened a little way, very cautiously, the mistress peering out suspiciously.

“Laws! Mr. Redfield, is it you?”—throwing the door wide open. “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. If I’d had any idea it was you, I shouldn’t a’ been skeered. But husband’s gone to the village, and I was alone with the children, and when you knocked so sudden, my heart came right up in my mouth. I didn’t like to see who ’twas. Do come in. How cold ’tis out to-night. You look real blue. Take a chair by the stove and warm yourself. I’m real ashamed I kept you standing so long. How is all the family, sir?”

“About as usual, Mrs. Scott. So you are cowardly when you are alone evenings, are you? I’ve mistaken your character, then; I’ve given you credit for being one of the strong-minded women.”

“Wal, the truth is,” she said apologetically, “I never did used to be afraid of any thing, dead or alive. But, since young Mr. Henry was took away so sudden, I’ve been nervous and frightened like. I’ve never got over the shock. I’ll holler right out, sometimes, in broad daylight, if any thing startles me, if it’s only a door slamming. Husband laughs at me and scolds me, but I can’t help it.”

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, because another had evil happen to him.”

“I know that as well as anybody. It’s not because I’ve reason to be afeard, that I am—it’s the shock, you see. There, there, Johnny, be still, will you? I used to go all over the place the darkest night that ever was—but now, really, I’m ashamed to tell you, I dasn’t put my face out after dark.”

“I should think it would be unpleasant, such a chronic state of fear,” and I half-smiled through my own melancholy, at the woman’s anxious face.

“Onpleasant! I reckon it is mighty onpleasant. But there’s good reason for it.”

“You just acknowledged that there was no reason—that it was fancy, Mrs. Scott.”

“You’re goin’ to trip me over my own words, Mr. Redfield. It was fancy, at first, just nervousness; but lately—lately, as I said, there’s been things—”

“What things?”

“I know you’ll laugh at me, sir; and you won’t half believe me, neither—so I guess I’d better not make a fool of myself before you. But if you, or any other livin’ person, had seen what I seen, and heard what I heard, then you’d know what I know—that’s all!”

She spoke with such evident earnestness, and I had hitherto felt so much respect for the sturdy strength and integrity of her New England character, that my curiosity was somewhat aroused. I thought best to let her quiet herself, however, before leading her to converse about the subject most on her mind, as I saw that she still trembled from the fright I had given her by my sudden knock at the door.

“How’s the place getting on since the winter weather set in? I suppose your husband had the plants housed long ago. Has he been making any changes with the grounds? I suppose not, since the family has so completely deserted the villa. I came out to-night to take a look at it. This is the twenty-third of December, do you remember?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ of it all day, Mr. Redfield.”

“It’s terrible to see the house standing there in silence and darkness, to-night. There seemed to me something ghostly about it—I could not endure it. Have you been through the rooms lately?”

This last question I asked without any other object than to keep up the conversation; she had started and looked curiously at me, when I casually used the figurative expression of “ghostly,” and now she shook her head.

“I’ve not been through the house lately,” she said. “I ought to go, I know—it wants airin’, and there’s bedclothes and things in the closet wants lookin’ after.”

“Then why do you not attend to it?”

“That’s it,” she answered, looking me uneasily in the face.

“What?”

“Well, sir, to tell you the truth, it’s my opinion, and I know, laugh as you may—”

“I haven’t laughed, Mrs. Scott.”

She arose, looked at her boy, now fast asleep in his cradle, went to the window, drew the little white curtain across the lower half, resumed her chair, glanced about the room, and was opening her lips to speak, when a slight rattling sound against the panes of glass, made her clasp her hands together and utter a cry.

“What on earth was that?”

I did indeed now laugh at her pale face, answering, in some vexation,

“It was the snow breaking from the eaves, and slipping down against the window.”

“Oh!” drawing a long breath. “You are provoked at me, Mr. Redfield. If you knew all, you wouldn’t be.”

“Well, tell me all, at once, then, and let me judge.”

Again she gave a cautious look about, as if invisible guests might hear and not relish her revelation, drew her chair a little nearer mine, and said, impressively,

“The house is haunted!”

“Is that all?” I asked, feeling quite relieved, for her manner had startled me in spite of myself.

“It’s enough!” was the significant response. “To tell you flatly, sir, John’s about concluded to write to Mr. Moreland, and give up the situation.”

“Your husband! is he so foolish, too? There are no such things as haunted houses, Mrs. Scott; and to give up a permanent and excellent home like this, upon any such idle fancy, seems to me very unwise.”

“Goodness knows I’ve liked the place,” she cried, bursting into tears, “and that we don’t know what to turn to when we leave this. But I’m worn out with it—I can’t stand it no longer! You see how unsettled I am now.”

Unsettled enough, certainly, from the usually composed and self-reliant woman in whose judgment I had placed considerable confidence.

“You haven’t told me any thing to prove your assertion. I don’t believe in ghosts, I warn you; but I’d like to hear your reasons for thinking the villa has got one.”

“I always made fun of ghosts, myself, and so did John, until this happened. He won’t own up now, ’cept that he’s ready to leave the place, and won’t go in with me in broad daylight, to ’tend to the rooms. So I know he’s just as scairt as I am. And you know John’s no coward with any thing he can see or handle, and it’s no disgrace to a body to be shy of onearthly things. I’m a bold woman myself, but I ain’t ready to face a spook.”

“What makes you think the house is haunted?”

“Plenty of things.”

“Please mention a few. I’m a lawyer, you know, and demand the proofs.”

“I’ve seen a curious light hovering over the roof of the house of nights.”

“Did your husband see it also?”

“Yes, he did see it, night before last. He wouldn’t believe till he see it. I’ve seen it seven or eight times myself.”

“What was it like?”

“Oh, Lordy, I’m sure I can’t tell exactly what it was like, when I never saw any thing of the kind before; I suppose it’s like them dead-lights that’s been seen over graves. It’s more like a bright shadow than an actual light—you can see through it like air. It wanders about the roof, then stops over one particular place. It would make your flesh creep to see it, sir!”

“I would like, above all things, to try it. Do you suppose, if we went out now, we should have the opportunity?”

“It’s too early; leastways, I’ve never seen it so early in the evenin’. The first time, my baby was sick, and I got up in the night to get him some drops, and as I looked out the window, there was the thing shinin’.”

“Is that all that makes you think the house haunted?”

“No, sir; we’ve heard things—curious sounds—even in the daytime.”

“What were the sounds like?”

“I couldn’t rightly explain ’em to you, sir. They were not human sounds.”

“Try and give me some idea of them.”

“They’d rise and fall, rise and fall—not like singing, nor crying, nor talking—a kind of wailing music, only not like it, either—that is, not like any thing I ever heard. It seems to come mostly from the family-room, back o’ the library. John and me followed it up one evenin’. We went close up on the porch, and put our ears to the shutters. We heard it plain. We was so frightened, we’ve been glad not to go near the house again. I don’t feel as if I ever could.”

“I think I know what it was,” I said, half inclined to laugh. “The doors or sashes have been left open in such a way as to make a draught. It is the wind, singing through the crevices of the deserted mansion. I, myself, have heard the wind make most unearthly music under such circumstances.”

“’Twa’n’t wind at all,” said the gardener’s wife, in an offended tone.

“Perhaps persons have obtained access to the house that have no business there. They may deface the furniture, or carry off articles of value. You really ought to look to it, Mrs. Scott; it’s part of your duty.”

“There’s nobody got in—I’m certain of that. We’ve examined every door and window. There’s not the least sign of any human being about the premises. I tell you, Mr. Redfield, it’s spirits; and no wonder, considering how poor Henry was took away.”

She said this solemnly, relapsing into moody silence.

I felt quite convinced that the imaginations of the pair, already awed and excited by the murder, had converted some trifling atmospheric or other phenomena, or some combination of circumstances, easily explained when the key to them was found, into the mystery of a haunted house. I was sorry, for two reasons: first, that they thought of leaving, when I knew that their departure would give trouble to Mr. Moreland, who had left the entire charge of the place to them for years, and at a time when he was too bowed with heavier cares to be vexed with these small matters; second, that the couple would be sure to spread the report through the village, causing gossip and conjecture, and exciting a prurient interest which would throng the vicinity with idle wonder-seekers. So I said,

“I wish your husband was at home to-night. I must see him. It will not do for him to trouble Mr. Moreland at this time, by throwing up his situation. You would both of you be sorry and ashamed at such a movement, before many weeks, I’m convinced. What do you say to my coming out here to-morrow, and to our going through the house together? If there is any thing in it which ought not to be, we will turn it out. I will stay until you have aired the house and looked at the clothing; then you can lock it up, and leave it for a few weeks without the necessity of going through it.”

“Well, Mr. Redfield, if you’re willin’ to do it, I ought to be ashamed to hang behind. I’ll do it, of course, and be thankful to you; for my conscience hain’t been easy, lettin’ them things go so. I’m right glad you happened out.”

“And tell your husband, please, not to say any thing about this matter to others. It will make it unpleasant for the friends.”

“I did tell him not to. He ain’t said nothin’ yet, I’m sure. It’s the last thing we’d be willin’ to do, make any more trouble for them that has too much now, and that has always been kind to us. Must you go, sir?”

“Yes; I’ll say good-night, Mrs. Scott. You may expect me in the morning, a little before noon. By the way, have you seen or heard any thing of Miss Sullivan?”

“Not the least thing. She’s kept clear of here since that day you found her here. So she’s run away, entirely, has she? Well, well, well—I never! I declare, I turn these things over in my brain, some days, till my head gets dizzy.”

“So does mine, and my heart sick. Good-night, ma’am.”

“Good-night, and good luck to you, this dark night.”

She waited to see me through the gate, which led by a little lane past the kitchen-garden, and thence by a private road along down into the main one. As I passed the gate into the lawn, on my way out, I paused perhaps half an hour, in the hope of hearing or seeing the marvels of which the woman had spoken. There was no mystic light, blue or yellow, playing lambently over the roof; no sound, sinking and rising, came wildly on the starlit air; all was profound silence and darkness and coldness like that of the grave.

My half-contemptuous pity of the state of mind into which the gardener’s wife had worked herself, gave place to deeper emotions; I turned away, almost running along the smooth, hard-frozen road whose course was clearly discernible in the winter starlight. I met the gardener going home, but did not stop to speak with him—went directly to my lodgings. The fire was out in my room, and I crept into bed, forgetting that I had gone without my tea.

True to my promise, I went the next day to the villa. Mrs. Scott brought the keys, I unlocked the doors, and together we entered the long-vacant place. There is always something impressive, one might say, “ghostly,” about a deserted building. When you enter into it, you feel the influence of those who were last within it, as if some portion of them lingered in the old locality. I confess that I felt an almost superstitious awe and dread, as I stepped over the threshold which I had last crossed with him. How joyful, how full of young and princely life, he had then been, his face lit up, as a man’s face lights up when he attends upon the woman he loves and expects soon to make his own! He was leading Eleanor to a carriage; they had been talking about the improvements they were going to make in the house. How every look and tone came back to me! With a silent shudder, I stepped into the hall, which had that moldy smell of confined air belonging to a closed dwelling. I hastened to throw open the shutters. When I unclosed a door, I flung it wide, stepping quickly in, and raising the windows, so as to have the sunlight before looking much about. I had to do it all, for my companion kept close to me, never stirring from my elbow. I went into every room on every floor, from the kitchen to the garret. Into the latter I only glanced, as Mrs. Scott said there was nothing up there which she wanted, or which required attention. It was a loft, rough-floored, of comfortable hight, with a window at the gable end. The roof ran up sharply in the center, the villa being built in the Gothic style. There was such a collection of rubbish in it as is usual to such places—broken-down furniture, worn-out trunks, a pile of mattresses in a corner, over which a blanket had been thrown to keep them from the dust, some clothing depending from a line, and three or four barrels. Mrs. Scott was standing at the foot of the ladder, which led up into the attic out of a small room, or closet, used for storing purposes. I saw she was uneasy at having me even that far from her, and after a brief survey of the garret, I assured her there were no ghosts there, and descended.

“Help yourself to some of them apples,” said the woman, pointing to some boxes and barrels in the room where we now stood. “They’re winter pippins. John’s going to send them into the city, to the family, in a week or two. We’ve permission to keep ’em here, because it’s dry and cool, and the closet being in the middle of the house, it don’t freeze. It’s a good place for fruit. Hark! What was that?”

“It was a cat,” said I, as I put a couple of the apples in my overcoat pocket. “It sounded like a cat—in the garret. If we shut it up there, it’ll starve.”

I went up the ladder again, looking carefully about the attic, and calling coaxingly to the animal, but no cat showed itself, and I came down, saying it must have been in one of the lower rooms, and had probably run in since we opened the doors.

“It sartingly sounded overhead,” persisted my companion, looking nervous, and keeping closer to me than ever.

I had heard the noise, but would not have undertaken to say whether it came from above or below.

“If that is the material she makes ghosts of, I’m not surprised that she has a full supply,” I thought.

In going out, the woman was careful to close the door, and I could see her stealing covert glances into every corner, as we passed on, as if she expected, momently, to be confronted by some unwelcome apparition, there in the broad light of day. There were no traces of any intruders having made free with the house. The clothes and china closets were undisturbed, and the bureaus the same.

“This was Harry’s room; he liked it because it had the best view of the river,” said Mrs. Scott, as we paused before a chamber on the second floor.

We both hesitated; her apron was at her eyes, and my own throat swelled suddenly: reverently I opened the door, and stepped within, followed by the housekeeper. As I raised the window, and flung back the shutter, she gave a scream. I was really startled. Turning quickly, I saw her with her hands thrown up, an expression of terror upon her face.

“I told you the house was haunted,” she murmured, retreating backward toward the door.

“What do you see?” I asked, glancing about for the cause of her alarm.

“This room,” she gasped—“it was his—and he comes here still. I know it!”

“What makes you think so? Has it been disturbed? If it has, rest assured it has been by the living, not the dead.”

“I wish I thought so,” she said, solemnly. “It can not be. No other part of the house is in the least disturbed. No one has had admission to it—it is impossible; not a crack, not a cranny, by which any thing but a spirit could have got in. Harry’s been here, Mr. Redfield; you can’t convince me different.”

“And if he has,” I said, calmly, for I saw that she was much agitated, “are you any more afraid of him now than you were when he was in the body? You loved him then; think you he will harm you now? Rather you ought to be glad, since you believe in ghosts, that it is a good spirit which haunts these premises—the innocent spirit of the murdered, not the guilty one of the murderer.”

“I know it,” she said. “I’m not afraid—I don’t think I could be really afraid of Henry’s ghost, even if I should see it; but it’s so—awful, isn’t it?”

“Not to me, at all. If such things were permitted, I should like to meet this spiritual visitant, and ask him the one question—if, indeed, he could answer it. I should like to have him point out the guilty. If his hand could reach out from the spiritual world, and stretch a blasting finger toward his murderer, that would be awful to the accursed one, but it would be welcome to me. But what makes you think Henry has been here?”

She pointed to the bed; there was a pressure upon it, as if some light shape had lain there—just the faintest indentation of a head on one of the pillows; from thence she pointed to a little writing-table, between the windows, on which a book lay open, and where there were some papers and engravings; then to a pair of slippers standing on the carpet at the head of the bed. The room was a delightful one, furnished with blue and white—Henry’s favorite colors. Two or three exquisite little pictures hung on the walls, and not the slightest toy occupied a niche in any place but spoke of the taste and refinement which had chosen it. From the two windows, the view of the river flowing amidst the hills, and the lovely country spreading far away, was such as would satisfy the eye of a poet, turned from the page before him on the little writing-table, to rest upon the fairer page of nature.

“I came into this room the day of the funeral,” said the housekeeper, with a trembling voice, “and I sot all to rights, as if the master was coming back the next day. But little I thought he would really come! I spread that bed as smooth as paper; I put on fresh slips on the pillows, and sot ’em up without a dent or wrinkle in ’em; I put his slippers with their toes to the wall, and now they’re standin’ as he always left ’em when he took ’em off. Them papers has been stirred, and he’s been readin’ in that book. She gave him that, and it was a favorite with him; I’ve often seen him with it in his hand. You may shake your head, Mr. Redfield, but I know Henry’s been back here in his room.”

“If any thing in this room has been disturbed, rest assured there’s been some living intruder here. A spirit would have had no need of slippers, and would have made no impression on your smooth bed.”

“You can talk your big words, for you are an edicated man, Mr. Redfield, but you can’t convince me against my own persuasion. It’s been no human being has mussed that spread—why, it’s hardly wrinkled—you can just see it’s been laid on, and that’s all. Besides, how did they get in? Can you tell me that? Through the keyhole, mebbe, and went out the same way!”

Her voice was growing sharp and a little sarcastic. I saw that it was in vain to try to disabuse her mind of its impression while she was in her present excited state. And, indeed, I had no worthy argument to offer. To all appearance the rest of the house had been undisturbed; there was not a broken fastening, a displaced bar of any kind, and nothing missing. It would seem as if nothing weightier than a shadow had stirred the pillow, and moved about the room. As long as I could not tell what it was, I could not positively assert what it was not.

I sat by the open window, while she smoothed the pillow, and placed every article with an exactness which would inevitably betray the slightest disturbance.

“You shall see for yourself, sir, the next time you come here,” she muttered.

As I waited, I lifted a little volume, which lay, with others, on the table before me. It was Mrs. Browning’s, and it opened at a page where a book-mark had been left—once I had seen Eleanor embroidering that very mark, I was sure. The first lines which caught my eye were these:

Just then a cloud swept over the noonday sun; a chill struck through the open window; the wind which blew in, fluttering the page, could not have been more dreary had it blown across a churchyard. Shivering, I continued to read:

I know not if the housekeeper spoke to me. The clouds thickened about the sun; a dampness came in from the air. I held the book, staring at it, like one in a trance, and pondering the strange coincidence. Evidently, Henry had read these verses when he last opened the book—perhaps the lovers had read them together, with a soft sigh for the fate of Margret, and a smile in each other’s faces to think how safe their happiness was—how far removed from this doleful “Romaunt.” Now would he “open his dull eyes,” for Eleanor’s tears? I seemed to hear the low laugh of the mocking fiend; a more than wintry sereness settled upon the landscape:

Yes! I was fast getting into the mood for believing any thing which Mrs. Scott might assert about the occupant of this chamber. Emotions which I had never before experienced chilled my heart; shapes began to gather in every obscure corner; when the rising wind suddenly blew a door shut, in the hall beneath, I started to my feet.

“We’re goin’ to have a stormy Christmas,” said my companion. “It’ll suit our feelin’s better’n a sunny one, I’m sure. Hark! there’s my Johnny cryin’, I do believe! I should think his father could keep him quiet a bit, till I get the house shut up again.”

“It was that cat, I thought.”

“Never mind. I’m through now, if you please, sir. Take a look at this room, and fix it on your mind, if you will; and the next time you’re out here, we’ll open it together.”

We reclosed and barred the shutters throughout the house, carefully fastened the doors, once more leaving it to its desolation. We had seen no ghosts; I do not suppose the woman expected to see any, but I felt certain that her fears were in no manner dispelled.

“You see the place is all right,” I said, when I handed her the keys. “There is nothing in the world to make you uneasy. I would as soon sleep alone in the villa as in my own room. I will do it, soon, if you are not satisfied. All I ask of you is not to write to Mr. Moreland until I have seen you again. I shall come out before many days, to see how you get along.”

“We shall wait until you come again, sir, before we say any thing. I feel better, now things are ’tended to. There’s Johnny crying again! Well, Mr. Redfield, good-by. It’ll snow by the time you get home.”

I had a wild walk back to the village—full of lonely magnificence and gloom, which suited my temper. Gray mists hung over the river and swept about the bases of the hills; gray clouds whirled around their summits; gray snow came down in blinding drifts; a savage wind seemed to be blowing the universe about my ears.