She recalled to memory the day Nurse Hopkins showed her over the house. The picture gallery, with its secret stairs leading into some quaint old unused rooms, with their old worn-out hangings and antique furniture; ghostly-looking, and certainly dismal and solitary, in being so far removed from that part of the house now teeming with life and gaiety; yet Nurse apparently had no fear, but walked boldly on, and appeared in no hurry to emerge into the life beyond, as she talked of the former greatness of the Hall. To Amy, however, the feeling of utter loneliness, the dull, dead sound of the opening and shutting of doors, as they passed through, sent a chill to her heart. Even the jingling of the ponderous bunch of keys Nurse carried jarred against her nerves, so that perhaps her own shadow might have startled and alarmed her. But although Nurse, in a loud tone of voice, seemed never tired of recounting the by-gone grandeur, which had been handed down to her from the sayings of former housekeepers, yet her voice had sunk into a whisper, as in passing by that door, she stopped and said, "No one ever goes in there. It was old Mrs. Linchmore's room," as if the simple fact of its having been old Mrs. Linchmore's room forbade further enquiry, and was in itself sufficient to check all idle curiosity. Amy passed by the door whenever she went into the long corridor. The room stood at one end, facing the entire length of the passage; but the door was at the side adjoining the door of another room, and opposite the baize door, so that Amy's dress almost brushed its panels in passing by, and never could she recollect having once seen the door standing open, or the signs of a housemaid's work near it. Perhaps the room was held sacred by Mr. Linchmore as having been his mother's; perhaps he it was who was there now, although it did seem strange his going at such an hour, being past twelve o'clock by Anne's watch when they parted. Still, it might be his peculiar fancy to go, when secure from interruption and the remarks of others. All people had strange fancies; perhaps this was his. And partly comforted and assured with the conclusion she had arrived at, and partly wearied with the effort, Amy fell asleep. CHAPTER XIV. MEMORIES OF THE PAST. "And the hours of darkness and the days of gloom, That shadow and shut out joys are come; And there's a mist on the laughing sea, And the flowers and leaves are nought to me; And on my brow are furrows left, And my lip of ease and smile is reft; And the time of gray hairs and trembling limbs, And the time when sorrow the bright eye dims, And the time when death seems nought to fear, So sad is life,--is here, is here!" MARY ANNE BROWN.