She turned and gestured at her mistress with a long, pointed forefinger. Her voice had a note of doom. “I bet a cent the cook never had any sister—and the sister never had any twins,” she said impressively. “No, Miss Neily, they couldn’t put it over on me like that! They were scared away. They saw—It!” She concluded her epic and stood nodding her head, an Irish Cassandra who had prophesied the evil to come. “Fiddlesticks!” said Miss Cornelia briskly, more shaken by the recital than she would have admitted. She tried to think of another topic of conversation. “What time is it?” she asked. Lizzie glanced at the mantel clock. “Half-past ten, Miss Neily.” Miss Cornelia yawned, a little dismally. She felt as if the last two hours had not been hours but years. “Miss Dale won’t be home for half an hour,” she said reflectively. _And if I have to spend another thirty minutes listening to Lizzie shiver_, she thought, _Dale will find me a nervous wreck when she does come home_. She rolled up her knitting and put it back in her knitting-bag; it was no use going on, doing work that would have to be ripped out again and yet she must do something to occupy her thoughts. She raised her head and discovered Lizzie returning toward the alcove stairs with the stealthy tread of a panther. The sight exasperated her. “Now, Lizzie Allen!” she said sharply, “you forget all that superstitious nonsense and stop looking for ghosts! There’s nothing in that sort of thing.” She smiled—she would punish Lizzie for her obdurate timorousness. “Where’s that ouija-board?” she questioned, rising, with determination in her eye. Lizzie shuddered violently. “It’s up there—with a prayer book on it to keep it quiet!” she groaned, jerking her thumb in the direction of the farther bookcase. “Bring it here!” said Miss Cornelia implacably; then as Lizzie still hesitated, “Lizzie!” Shivering, every movement of her body a conscious protest, Lizzie slowly went over to the bookcase, lifted off the prayer book, and took down the ouija-board. Even then she would not carry it normally but bore it over to Miss Cornelia at arms’-length, as if any closer contact would blast her with lightning, her face a comic mask of loathing and repulsion. She placed the lettered board in Miss Cornelia’s lap with a sigh of relief. “You can do it yourself! I’ll have none of it!” she said firmly. “It takes two people and you know it, Lizzie Allen!” Miss Cornelia’s voice was stern but—it was also amused. Lizzie groaned, but she knew her mistress. She obeyed. She carefully chose the farthest chair in the room and took a long time bringing it over to where her mistress sat waiting. “I’ve been working for you for twenty years,” she muttered. “I’ve been your goat for twenty years and I’ve got a right to speak my mind—” Miss Cornelia cut her off. “You haven’t got a mind. Sit down,” she commanded.