vision, so wavering and indistinct that she could not say with certainty that it wore the semblance of a human form.  The blood at her heart seemed to stand still, but yet she neither screamed nor fainted, nor tried to wake her sister.  She watched the Thing as it moved to and fro in the chamber.  Suddenly it came toward her, and stood at the bedside, seeming indeed, as Faithful had said, to be “all around her in the air,” and weigh upon her with a sense of oppression almost unendurable as the shadowy Presence obscured the moonbeams.  Miss Sophonisba bent all her will to the effort, and with an heroic exertion she put out her hand to try by the sense of touch if indeed she was in her waking senses.  Her fingers were met by others, soft, cold and damp.  For a second, which seemed an hour, they grasped her extended hand with a close, clinging touch that some way seemed half familiar.  For one instant the shapeless gloom appeared to take definite form—­a tall human figure, a man in poor and ragged clothes; for one instant a pair of wistful, eager eyes looked into her own; the next, the cock without crowed loud and shrill.  Her hand was released, and with the same long, weary sigh the ghostly Presence passed away.  Miss Sophonisba sank back on her pillow nearly insensible.  She did not know how long she lay there, but when she at last gathered her senses she saw and felt, with an involuntary shudder, that her hand was wet and cold, and that across the floor, plain in the moonlight, leading to the half-open door, were the marks of wet feet.  She did not waken her sister, who still slept quietly at her side, but it was with unspeakable relief that she saw the morning dawn at last.

In spite of herself, Miss Sophonisba was forced to the conclusion that, except on the supposition that some inhabitant of another world had been permitted to approach her, her experience was wholly inexplicable.  “If it comes again,” said she to herself, “I’ll certainly speak to it.  Goodness me!” she added, somewhat irritated in spite of her terror, “if it’s got anything to say, why don’t it speak and be done with it?”

She said nothing of the matter to her sister, and she so far controlled herself as to preserve her usual manner.

The sisters were busily engaged all day over the mourning dresses, when toward night Miss Faithful’s thread gave out and her work came to a stand-still.

“How provoking!” said she.  “Three yards more would finish, and now I shall have to go down to the village and buy a whole skein, just for that.”

“No,” said Miss Sophonisba, who would not have acknowledged to herself her dread of being alone in the house, “I think there’s some like that in the chimney cupboard in the south room:  I’ll get it.”