"One afternoon—the same that the accident occurred to Mr. Chandos—Tilda had been up to the house, begging as usual. She vowed, if I would not relieve her with either money or food, to do some damage to the family: but she had been having a drop of beer, and I paid no attention to her, and wouldn't give her anything. I may be giving for ever, I said to her, and she went away, threatening. After she was gone, I kept thinking over what she had said—that she'd do some damage to the family—the words wouldn't go away from me, and I got right down frightened, lest she should put her threat in force. What if she should fire one of the haystacks, or poison the poultry?—all sorts of horrors I kept on imagining. I begged some cold meat of the cook, inventing a story of a poor sick family, and collected some broken bits of bread, with a pinch of tea, and ran out with it all in a basket, at the dusk hour. They were lodging in one of the lanes close by; and when I got there I found Tilda had not been in. I couldn't stop; I gave the things to John, and told him he must keep Tilda away or I should lose my place; he promised he'd do what he could, but added that I knew as well as he did how little she'd be said. In hurrying back through the avenue, with my basket, I came upon Mr. Chandos lying there; you were standing by him. Miss, when I heard what had happened, as true as that we are here, I was afraid that she had done it. I went back and taxed her with it; she had come in then, but she was sullen and would not say yes nor no. I was frightened out of my senses for fear it should come out; and I tried to lay it upon the gipsies. But the next day, when her temper came to her, she vowed and protested that she'd had nothing to do with it. I thought then it really was the gipsies, and wished to bring it home to them. That's the truth, Miss, as I'm here living." "And what were you doing in my room that night, Lizzy?" "What night, Miss?" "When I surprised you, and you appeared so confused. The excuse you made was that you were looking for the ghost." "And so I was looking for it, Miss," she answered: "I was doing nothing else. One of the girls had said the ghost was abroad that night, and I thought I'd look. Between Tilda and the ghost my time was a bad one just then. I'm sure I was thankful when she and John left these parts. He has got work at the malting in a distant town, and they are doing well. I wish the ghost could be got rid of as easily." If Lizzy Dene had but known how entirely the poor ghost had gone out of the world for ever! Would Chandos ever lose its belief in it? "I have told you this, Miss, because I thought you seemed to suspect me; and I didn't deserve it. I'm true to the family, to the backbone, Miss; and so I always will be. My lady has confidence in me; she has known me a long while."