The panic-stricken girl had no power to withdraw her gaze, that seemed fascinated to that beautiful form, with its flowing, snowy drapery, and streaming jet-black hair, and long fair hands that she clasped and wrung like one in deepest grief, as in slow measured steps she paced up and down. Presently, in turning away from her monotonous path, to Susan’s unutterable horror, she slowly and steadily approached her window! Just as that wild white face looked in from the outer darkness, Susan, half swooning, sunk back upon her pillow, with barely strength enough left to draw the counterpane over her swimming head; and there she lay half paralyzed with terror, her heart quivering, almost dying in her bosom with the momentary expectation of some supernatural denouement, until at length, as before, the deathly sense of suffocation, and the imminent necessity of breathing, compelled her to uncover her face. All was solitude, silence and darkness around her. The spectral face had disappeared from the window. Still, in deadly terror of its return, she closed her eyes and lay shivering. She would have given all that she possessed in the world for the companionship of any human being. Yet in affectionate solicitude for the uninterrupted repose of her suffering mistress, she refrained from flying for shelter into the chamber of the latter. And so she lay cowering and shuddering, occasionally lifting her eyelids a little way, to steal a cautious glance around the room and through the window; but all continued silent, dark and solitary, until near morning, when the joyous crowing of Aunt Amphy’s chickens, and the cheerful red streaks along the eastern horizon, heralding the approach of day, put her superstitious, midnight terrors to flight, and enabled her wearied frame to sink to sleep. She must have slept long and heavily, when a sharp tapping upon the pane of glass nearest her ear caused her to start up in affright. It was now very late in the morning, and Aunt Amphy stood outside, tapping on the window. “Marster’s dear sake, chile, _is_ you dead, or is yer gwine sleep for eber?” “Oh! is that you, Mother Amphy?” “Sure it’s me, an’ its gwine on to seven o’clock, chile.” “Oh, is it? I will get up directly and let you in,” said Susan, rising and hurrying on her clothes. “_Dar_, what you tink of _dat_ for your Mist’ess’ breakfas’?” inquired the old woman, triumphantly holding up a fine fat “red neck” before the window. “What sort of a bird do you call _that_?” asked Susan. “Bird? De Lor! Dis ain’t no _bird_ chile! It is one of the bestest ducks ’cept de canwas back as flies over our waters. It’s a red-neck, an’ my ole darlin’ shoot him dis mornin’ for de chile’s breakfas’.” “Why, your old man is the best of gamekeepers. My lady must reward him handsomely. He certainly is the very best of gamekeepers.”