"You can talk your big words, for you are an edicated man, Mr. Redfield, but you can't convince me against my own persuasion. It's been no human being has mussed that spread--why, it's hardly wrinkled--you can just see it's been laid on, and that's all. Besides, how did they get in? Can you tell me that? Through the keyhole, mebbe, and went out the same way!" Her voice was growing sharp and a little sarcastic. I saw that it was in vain to try to disabuse her mind of its impression while she was in her present excited state. And, indeed, I had no worthy argument to offer. To all appearance the rest of the house had been undisturbed; there was not a broken fastening, a displaced bar of any kind, and nothing missing. It would seem as if nothing weightier than a shadow had stirred the pillow, and moved about the room. As long as I could not tell what it _was_, I could not positively assert what it was _not_. I sat by the open window, while she smoothed the pillow, and placed every article with an exactness which would inevitably betray the slightest disturbance. "You shall see for yourself, sir, the next time you come here," she muttered. As I waited, I lifted a little volume, which lay, with others, on the table before me. It was Mrs. Browning's, and it opened at a page where a book-mark had been left--once I had seen Eleanor embroidering that very mark, I was sure. The first lines which caught my eye were these: "_It_ trembled on the grass With a low, shadowy laughter; The sounding river, which rolled forever, Stood dumb and stagnant after." Just then a cloud swept over the noonday sun; a chill struck through the open window; the wind which blew in, fluttering the page, could not have been more dreary had it blown across a churchyard. Shivering, I continued to read: "_It_ trembled on the grass With a low, shadowy laughter; And the wind did toll, as a passing soul Were sped by church-bell after; And shadows 'stead of light, Fell from the stars above, In flakes of darkness on her face Still bright with trusting love. Margret! Margret! He _loved_ but only thee! _That_ love is transient, too; The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still In the mouth that vowed thee true. Will he open his dull eyes, When tears fall on his brow? Behold the death-worm in his heart Is a nearer thing than _thou_, Margret! Margret!"