A faint moan was heard; it came from the chamber of Alice. The Madam did not heed that moan, but opening the closet door, crossed its threshold, followed by Corkins. The light disclosed the details of that small and gloomy place; and glittered brightly upon a mahogany chest or box which rested on the floor. A mahogany box, with surface polished like a mirror, and a shape that told at sight of death and the grave. It was a coffin; and the coffin of that nameless girl who had been removed from the bed, in the adjoining chamber, in order to make room for Alice. "What,--what--is--to--be--done--with--her?" said Corkins, as he touched the coffin with his foot. Here, for one moment, while Corkins and the Madam stand beside the coffin, in the lonely closet of the accursed mansion; here, for one moment, turn your gaze away. Look far through the night, and let your gaze rest upon the fireside light of yonder New England home. It is a quiet fireside, in the city of Hartford; and a father and a mother are sitting there, bewailing the singular absence of their only daughter, a beautiful girl, the hope and the light of their home; she strangely disappeared a week ago, and since then, they have heard no signs nor tidings of her fate. And now they are sitting by their desolate fireside; the father choking down his agony in silent prayer; the mother giving free vent to her anguish in a flood of tears. And the eyes of father and mother turn to the daughter's place by the fireside; it is vacant, and forever. For while they bewail her absence,--while they hope for her return by morning light,--their daughter rests in the coffin, here, at the feet of Madam Resimer. Weep, fond mother; choke down your agony with silent prayer, brave father: but tears nor prayers can never bring your daughter back again. To-night, she rests in the coffin, at the feet of Madam Resimer; to-morrow night--Look yonder! A learned doctor is lecturing for the instruction of his students, and his "subject" lies on the table before him. That "subject," (Oh! do you see it, father and mother of the distant New England home,) that "subject" is your only daughter. Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day life, are more improbable than the maddest creations of romance. "What shall we do with _her_?" again exclaimed Corkins, touching the coffin with his foot. The Madam was troubled. "The red book!" she muttered, in an absent way, "the red book!" Her mind was evidently wandering. "It must be regained at any price." "But--this--body," interrupted Corkins, tapping the coffin with his foot. "Oh! _this_!" exclaimed the Madam, and a pleasant smile stole over her face. "Oh! as to _this_! we can easily dispose of it. I tell you, Corkins, we will--" But she did not tell Corkins. For, from the adjoining room, came a cry, so ringing with the emphasis of mortal agony, that even the Madam was struck with terror, as she heard it. Without a word, she led Corkins into the chamber of Alice.