Rachel was troubled by a sort of fear to-night, and the low fever of an undefined expectation was upon her. She turned from the window, intending to write two letters, which she had owed too long--young ladies' letters--for Miss Lake, like many of her sex, as I am told, had several little correspondences on her hands; and as she turned, with a start, she saw old Tamar standing in the door-way, looking at her. 'Tamar!' 'Yes, Miss Rachel.' 'Why do you come so softly, Tamar? Do you know, you frightened me?' 'I thought I'd look in, Miss, before I went to bed, just to see if you wanted anything.' 'No--nothing, thank you, dear Tamar.' 'And I don't think, Miss Rachel, you are quite well to-night, though you are so gay--you're pale, dear; and there's something on your mind. Don't be thinking about Master Stanley; he's out of the army now, and I'm thankful for it; and make your mind easy about him; and would not it be better, dear, you went to your bed, you rise so early.' 'Very true, good old Tamar, but to-night I must write a letter--not a long one, though--and I assure you, I'm quite well. Good-night, Tamar.' Tamar stood for a moment with her odd weird look upon her, and then bidding her good-night, glided stiffly away, shutting the door. So Rachel sat down to her desk and began to write; but she could not get into the spirit of her letter; on the contrary, her mind wandered away, and she found herself listening, every now and then, and at last she fancied that old Tamar, about whom that dream, and her unexpected appearance at the door, had given her a sort of spectral feeling that night, was up and watching her; and the idea of this white sentinel outside her door excited her so unpleasantly, that she opened it, but found no Tamar there; and then she revisited the kitchen, but that was empty too, and the fire taken down. And, finally, she passed into the old woman's bed-chamber, whom she saw, her white head upon her pillow, dreaming again, perhaps. And so, softly closing her door, she left her to her queer visions and deathlike slumber. CHAPTER XVII. RACHEL LAKE SEES WONDERFUL THINGS BY MOONLIGHT FROM HER WINDOW. Though Rachel was unfit for letter-writing, she was still more unfit for slumber. She leaned her temple on her hand, and her rich light hair half covered her fingers, and her amazing interview with Dorcas was again present with her, and the same feeling of bewilderment. The suddenness and the nature of the disclosures were dream-like and unreal, and the image of Dorcas remained impressed upon her sight; not like Dorcas, though the same, but something ghastly, wan, glittering, and terrible, like a priestess at a solitary sacrifice.