Or a hair trunk would reveal little frocks stitched by hand, and a pair of tiny flat slippers with strings gone to dust like the little feet that had worn them.  With these were two dolls, one dressed in sprigged India muslin and lace, with a shepherdess hat glued on her painted head; the other dressed in a poke-bonnet, a satin sack, and a much-flounced skirt.  They had evidently belonged to “Lydia, our Darling Child,” whose name, in unsteady letters, was painfully set down in the printed picture-books at the bottom of the trunk.  These things that had belonged to a “darling child” so long dead lent the grim old house a softening touch.  Poor old house, whose little children had all gone, so long ago!

It was the day we were taking up the beautiful old carpet in the back drawing-room.  Alicia was rejoicing for the thousandth time over this treasure of hand-woven French art.  Of a sudden, horrible yells rose from the garden, and a shrieking negro went by the window like an arrow.  We caught “Murder!—­Ol’ Witch!—­Corpses!” as he disappeared.  Uncle Adam, catching his panic, bolted with him; the two negro women followed.  Only Mary Magdalen, amazonian arms bare, a rolling-pin grasped in a formidable fist, stood like a rock of defense behind us.

“Ah jes’ wants to catch any ol’ corpses trapesin’ ’round mah kitchin, trackin’ up mah clean flo’, an Ah ’ll suah settle day hash once fo’ all!” trumpeted Mary Magdalen.

Outside, Schmetz was jumping up and down, flapping his arms, and screaming in voluble French: 

“Name of a dog!  Senseless Senegambians, remain!  Iron-skulled offspring of the union of a black mule and a pickax, cease to fly!”

“What is the matter?  For heaven’s sake? what is the matter?” I shouted.

“We done dig up de corpses!  We done fin’ wha’h dat ol’ witch ’oman bury de bodies!” howled a workman in reply.

“Imbeciles, asses, beings without brains, listen to me!” shrieked Schmetz, this time in good English.  “This corpse is not alive!  Never yet was he alive!  Return, sons of perdition, and assist me to raise him—­may he fall upon your brain-pans of donkeys!”

As if that had been all that was needed, the last wavering workman flung down his shovel and took to his heels, running like a rabbit and roaring as he ran.

“Schmetz!” called a clear and peremptory voice.  “Schmetz! what’s the matter over there?”

“Ah!  It is Monsieur Jelnik!” bawled Schmetz. “Nom de Dieu, Monsieur Jelnik, come with a great quickness!  I have dug from the earth the leetle boy of stone—­you know him, hein?  Those niggers, sacrement! they think they have uncovered the deceased corpse, the victim of Madame the late mistress, with which she made her spells of a sorceress.”

“What!” said the voice.  “You’ve found the statue, Schmetz?  Ask, my good fellow, if it is permitted that I come and view it.”

“Why, of course!” said I, quickly.