Years before, when the country was new, it was a sort of public-house, and a young girl was said to have been murdered there, and buried in the cellar, from whence she was afterwards removed and thrown into the lake. For the truth of this story there was no proof, save the fact, that in the dark cellar there was a slight excavation, supposed to have been the grave of the ill-fated lady. All this Herbert very kindly told me, as we rode leisurely along, saying, when I asked if he believed it, “Believe it! No! Of course not. To be sure, it’s the squeakiest old rattle-trap of a house that I ever saw; and were I at all superstitious, I could readily believe it haunted, particularly when the wind blows hard. But you are not frightened; are you?” he asked, looking in my face, which was very pale. I hold that there is in every human breast a dread of the supernatural, and though I do not by any means believe in ghosts, I would certainly prefer not to live in a house where they are supposed to dwell. Still, I dared not tell Herbert so, and, consequently, I only laughed at the idea of a haunted house, saying, it was very romantic. It was after sunset when we at last turned into the long avenue, shaded on either side by forest maples, which the first proprietor of the place had suffered to remain; and as my eye fell upon the large, dark building, which Herbert said was his house, I involuntarily shuddered, for to me it seemed the very spot of all others which goblins would choose for their nightly revels. The wind was blowing from the west, and as I followed Herbert up to the door, my ear caught a dull, moaning sound, which caused me to quicken my footsteps, while I asked, in some trepidation, what it was. “That? Oh, that’s the roar of the lake. Don’t you see how near it is to us, directly at the foot of the hill?” and he pointed out to me the broad sheet of water, just discernible in the gathering darkness. A sudden gust of wind swept past me, and again I caught the low murmur. There was something human in the tone, and though for three years I almost daily heard that sound, I could never fully rid myself of the impression that it was the spirit of the murdered maiden which thus, to the swelling waves, complained of the crime long unpunished. “Come this way, Rose,” said Herbert, as I entered the narrow “entry” so common in old-fashioned houses; and following him, I was soon ushered into a large square room, where a bright wood fire was blazing, casting a somewhat cheerful aspect over the sombre, wainscoted walls of ancient make. In one corner of the room was a bed, and on it lay Anna, who, the moment she saw me, uttered a cry of joy. “Have you told her?” she asked of Herbert, when the first pleasure of our meeting was over.