or was the shapeless darkness anything more than an accidental shadow?  Another instant, and something touched her cheek—­something like soft, cold, moist fingers.  The touch, if such it was, was very gentle, such as a child might give to attract attention.  Miss Sophonisba would not give way.  She took up her work and went quietly on with it, though her fingers trembled.  The same long sigh fell upon her ear, the same chill breath of air swept past her, and the Presence, if such it was, was gone, and with it the shadow.

“Well,” said Miss Sophonisba to herself, “some things are kind of curious, after all!”

There had certainly been no living creature in the house but herself, for their cat had disappeared some days before, and the loss of their favorite had been a great vexation to both sisters.  The shadow behind her chair, if indeed it had been anything but fancy, had been too indistinct to allow her to say that she had really seen it before it had vanished, but what had given her the touch, the recollection of which yet caused a shiver?  She put up her hand to her cheek.  The place was wet—­an actual drop of water adhered to her finger.

“Dear me!” said she, “I wish I did know what to think.”

To one of her temperament the uncertainty was very annoying.  She could not bear to think that her experience was not directly owing to natural—­by which she meant, common—­causes.  “I am very glad Faithful was not here,” she thought as she turned to her work again.  She would not indulge herself by changing her seat, but kept her place with her back to the cellar door, though she could not help now and then casting a glance over her shoulder.  Neither shadow nor substance, however, made itself manifest.

That same night Miss Sophonisba woke from her sleep with the feeling that some one had called her.  She found herself mistaken, however, and lay quietly awake, thinking over the events of the afternoon.  The more she thought the more puzzled, and even provoked, did she become.  She was one of those people who cannot bear to feel themselves incapable of accounting for anything that is brought under their notice.  A mystery, as such, is an exasperation to them, and they will sometimes adopt an explanation more perplexing than the phenomenon itself, rather than say, “I don’t know.”  As she lay there thinking over the matter, and trying to make herself believe that the afternoon’s experience was the effect of the wind or her own fancy, she was startled by a step on the floor of the lower room—­the same light step.  It crossed the floor, and she heard it on the stairs.  Miss Sophonisba raised her head from her pillow and looked around.  There could be no doubt that she was awake.  She could see everything in the room:  her sister slept quietly at her side, and the moonlight shone in brightly at the window.  The slow step came up the stairs and in at the open door.  She heard it on the boards:  her eyes beheld the shadow of her sister’s