“Well, then, what in the name o’ sense was it?” demanded Susan Palmer somewhat impatiently, for she was tired and sleepy, and wearying for bed. Em. drew nearer, put her lips to her mother’s ear, and whispered: “Of Emolyn Wyndeworth! I have heard something of her fate!” “EH!” cried Susan Palmer, starting and dropping her candlestick. She was wide awake now, with every vestige of weariness departed, and the longing for bed turned into the longing for news. “Come up with me to my attic room, dear mother; there is a good fire burning there, and we shall be safe from interruption; and, oh, I have so much to tell you!” said Em. as she stooped and picked up the fallen candlestick and replaced the candle in it. “Em.! are you sure of what you are saying?” exclaimed Susan Palmer as soon as she could speak. “Quite sure, mother. Come,” said the girl, leading the way from the kitchen. “But how on the face of the earth could _you_ have heard anything about it?” breathlessly inquired the mother as she followed her daughter upstairs. “Dear mother, just wait till we get out of hearing of any of these rooms, and then I will tell you everything,” replied Em. in a whisper. “Where did she die? How long has she been dead? What was the matter with her besides a broken heart? Tell me that if you can,” persisted Susan Palmer as she tugged breathlessly up the attic stairs after her daughter. “Mother, she is not dead!” whispered Em. “EH!” cried the woman. “Hush-sh-sh—here we are at my room. Come in, mother, and when I have shut the door I will tell you all about it,” said Em. as she entered, followed by her eager listener. Em. secured the door, rolled the easy-chair up before the cheerful fire, made her mother sit down comfortably in it, drew a low stool to her side, seated herself, and prepared to commence her narration; but was vehemently interrupted by Susan’s breathless inquiries: “You say she’s not dead? Are you sure? How do you know? If she is not dead, where has she been all this time that no one has ever heard of her?” “Mother, dear, I do not quite know, except that she has been at Edengarden, and traveling. But, though living, she has been dead to the world, she says.” “‘_She says!_’ Why, for Heaven’s sake, girl, have you _seen_ her and heard her talk, _yourself_?” exclaimed Susan in a transport of wonder almost as great as if she had heard Em. tell of seeing and hearing a spirit from Paradise. “Yes, mother, dear, how else could I have known anything about the lady?” said Em., who would then have delivered a “plain unvarnished tale” of her day’s adventures had not Susan’s impetuous cross-examination precluded all possibility of a consecutive narrative. Em. was put upon the witness-stand and compelled to answer as she was questioned. “When did you see her? Where was she? How came you to meet her? How did she look? What did she say?”