The next morning, Harlan and Dorothy ate breakfast by themselves. There was suppressed excitement in the manner of Mrs. Smithers, who by this time had quite recovered from her fright, and, as they readily saw, not wholly of an unpleasant kind. From time to time she tittered audibly--a thing which had never happened before. "It's just as if a tombstone should giggle," remarked Harlan. His tone was low, but unfortunately, it carried well. "Tombstone or not, just as you like," responded Mrs. Smithers, as she came in with the bacon. "I'd be careful 'ow I spoke disrespectfully of tombstones if I was in your places, that's wot I would. Tombstones is kind to some and cussed to others, that's wot they are, and if you don't like the monument wot's at present in your kitchen, you know wot you can do." After breakfast, she beckoned Dorothy into the kitchen, and "gave notice." "Oh, Mrs. Smithers," cried Dorothy, almost moved to tears, "please don't leave me in the lurch! What should I do without you, with all these people on my hands? Don't think of such a thing as leaving me!" "Miss Carr," said Mrs. Smithers, solemnly, with one long bony finger laid alongside of her hooked nose, "'t ain't necessary for you to run no Summer hotel, that's what it ain't. These 'ere all be relations of your uncle's wife and none of his'n except by marriage. Wot's more, your uncle don't want 'em 'ere, that's wot 'e don't." Mrs. Smithers's tone was so confident that for the moment Dorothy was startled, remembering yesterday's vague allusion to "sheeted spectres of the dead." "What do you mean?" she demanded. "Miss Carr," returned Mrs. Smithers, with due dignity, "ever since I come 'ere, I've been invited to shut my 'ead whenever I opened it about that there cat or your uncle or anythink, as you well knows. I was never one wot was fond of 'avin' my 'ead shut up." "Go on," said Dorothy, her curiosity fully alive, "and tell me what you mean." "You gives me your solemn oath, Miss, that you won't tell me to shut my 'ead?" queried Mrs. Smithers. "Of course," returned Dorothy, trying to be practical, though the atmosphere was sepulchral enough. "Well, then, you knows wot I told you about that there cat. 'E was kilt by your uncle, that's wot 'e was, and your uncle couldn't never abide cats. 'E was that feared of 'em 'e couldn't even bury 'em when they was kilt, and one of my duties, Miss, as long as I lived with 'im, was buryin' of cats, and until this one, I never come up with one wot couldn't stay buried, that's wot I 'aven't.