"'I can't stay to-night,' said he, 'I've got a journey to take by the moonlight. Come along and let us be company for each other. There is a snug little place where we can rest when we're tired.'" "Oh! Miss Thusa, she didn't go, did she?" interrupted Helen, whose eyes, which had been gradually enlarging, looked like two full midnight moons. "Hush, child, if you ask another question, I'll stop short. She didn't do anything else but go, and they must have been a pretty sight walking in the moonlight together. The lonely woman and the worm-eaten traveler. On they went through the woods and over the plains, and up hill and down hill, over bridges made of fallen trees, and streams that had no bridges at all; when at last they came to a kind of uneven ground, and as the moon went behind a cloud, they went stumbling along as if treading over hillocks of corn. "'Here it is,' cried the worm-eaten traveler, stopping on the brink of a deep, open grave. The moon looked forth from behind a cloud, and showed how awful deep it was. She wanted to turn back then, but the skeleton arms of the figure seized hold of her, and down they both went without ladder or rope, and no mortal ever set eyes on them more. 'Oh! if I'd good company--if I'd good company, Oh! how happy should I be!'" It is impossible to describe the intensity with which Helen listened to this wild, dark legend, crouching closer and closer to the chimney corner, while the chillness of superstitious terror quenched the burning fire-rose on her cheek. "Was the spinning woman _you_, Miss Thusa?" whispered she, afraid of the sound of her own voice; "and did you see _it_ with your own eyes?" "Hush, foolish child!" said Miss Thusa, resuming her natural tone; "ask me no questions, or I'll tell you no tales. 'Tis time for the yellow bird to be in its nest. Hark! I hear your mother calling me, and 'tis long past your bed-time. Come." And Miss Thusa, sweeping her long right arm around the child, bore her shrinking and resisting towards the nursery room. "Please, Miss Thusa," she pleaded, "don't leave me alone. Don't leave me in the dark. I'm not one bit sleepy--I never shall go to sleep--I'm afraid of the worm-eaten man." "I thought the child had more sense," exclaimed the oracle. "I didn't think she was such a little goose as this," continued she, depositing her between the nice warm blankets. "Nobody ever troubles good little girls--the holy angels take care of them. There, good night--shut your eyes and go to sleep." "Please don't take the light," entreated Helen, "only just leave it till I get to sleep; I'll blow it out as soon as I'm asleep."