I hurried back to Bessie, fearful lest she might come in search of me, and insist upon hearing the reason of Mrs Graham’s tears. There was no doubt of one thing—another nurse must be found as soon as possible for little Dick, and I must take on myself the responsibility of providing for his present one. But all that required my husband’s permission and advice, and I must wait till I had seen and confided in him. Bessie, who had discovered that, notwithstanding my deplorable deficiency in the way of children, I could cut out their garments far better than she could do herself, had provided a delightful entertainment for me in the shape of half-a-dozen frocks to be made ready for the nurse’s hands, and the whole afternoon was spent in snipping and piecing and tacking together. But I didn’t grumble; my mind was too much occupied with poor Mrs Graham and her pathetic story. I thought of it so much that the temporary fear evoked by the apparition of the night before had totally evaporated. In the presence of a real, substantial human grief, we can hardly spare time for imaginary horrors. As bed-time recurred, and Bessie and I locked ourselves into our stronghold, I refused the half of the bed she offered me, and preferred to retain my own. I even made up my mind, if possible, not to sleep, but to watch for the mysterious sounds, and be the first to investigate them. So I would not put out my candle, but lay in bed reading long after Bessie’s snores had announced her departure to the land of dreams. I had come to the end of my book, my candle, and my patience, and was just about to give up the vigil as a failure, when I heard footsteps distinctly sounding along the corridor. I was out of bed in a moment, with my hand upon the lock of the door. I waited till the steps had passed my room, and then I turned the key and looked gently out. The same white figure I had seen the night before was standing a little beyond me, its course arrested, as it would appear, by the slight sound of unlocking the door. ‘Now or never,’ I thought to myself. ‘Dick always says I am the bravest woman he ever met, and I will try and prove him true. Why should I be afraid? Even if this _is_ a spirit, God is over IT and us, alike!’ So I stepped out into the passage, just as I should sit down to have a tooth drawn. The figure had recommenced walking, and was some paces farther from me. I followed it, saying softly, ‘What are you? Speak to me.’ But it did not turn, but went on, clasping its hands, and talking rapidly to itself. A sudden thought flashed across my mind. In a moment I felt sure that I was right, and had solved the mystery of Poplar Farm. I placed myself full in the path of the apparition, and as the end of the corridor forced it to turn and retrace its steps, I met face to face my poor, pretty Mrs Graham, with the flaxen hair she usually kept concealed beneath her widow’s cap, streaming over her shoulders and giving her a most weird and unearthly appearance.