"I've been thinkin' of it all day, Mr. Redfield." "It's terrible to see the house standing there in silence and darkness, to-night. There seemed to me something ghostly about it--I could not endure it. Have you been through the rooms lately?" This last question I asked without any other object than to keep up the conversation; she had started and looked curiously at me, when I casually used the figurative expression of "ghostly," and now she shook her head. "I've _not_ been through the house lately," she said. "I ought to go, I know--it wants airin', and there's bedclothes and things in the closet wants lookin' after." "Then why do you not attend to it?" "That's it," she answered, looking me uneasily in the face. "What?" "Well, sir, to tell you the truth, it's my opinion, and I know, laugh as you may--" "I haven't laughed, Mrs. Scott." She arose, looked at her boy, now fast asleep in his cradle, went to the window, drew the little white curtain across the lower half, resumed her chair, glanced about the room, and was opening her lips to speak, when a slight rattling sound against the panes of glass, made her clasp her hands together and utter a cry. "What on earth was that?" I did indeed now laugh at her pale face, answering, in some vexation, "It was the snow breaking from the eaves, and slipping down against the window." "Oh!" drawing a long breath. "You are provoked at me, Mr. Redfield. If you knew all, you wouldn't be." "Well, tell me all, at once, then, and let me judge." Again she gave a cautious look about, as if invisible guests might hear and not relish her revelation, drew her chair a little nearer mine, and said, impressively, "_The house is haunted!_" "Is that all?" I asked, feeling quite relieved, for her manner had startled me in spite of myself. "It's enough!" was the significant response. "To tell you flatly, sir, John's about concluded to write to Mr. Moreland, and give up the situation." "Your husband! is he so foolish, too? There are no such things as haunted houses, Mrs. Scott; and to give up a permanent and excellent home like this, upon any such idle fancy, seems to me very unwise." "Goodness knows I've liked the place," she cried, bursting into tears, "and that we don't know what to turn to when we leave this. But I'm worn out with it--I can't stand it no longer! You see how unsettled I am now." Unsettled enough, certainly, from the usually composed and self-reliant woman in whose judgment I had placed considerable confidence. "You haven't told me any thing to prove your assertion. I don't believe in ghosts, I warn you; but I'd like to hear your reasons for thinking the villa has got one."