Mrs. Meserve had not married young.  Mrs. Emerson had mental calculations when she heard that.

“Did you really live in a house that was—­” she whispered fearfully.

Mrs. Meserve nodded solemnly.

“Did you really ever—­see—­anything—­”

Mrs. Meserve nodded.

“You didn’t see anything that did you any harm?”

“No, I didn’t see anything that did me harm looking at it in one way, but it don’t do anybody in this world any good to see things that haven’t any business to be seen in it.  You never get over it.”

There was a moment’s silence.  Mrs. Emerson’s features seemed to sharpen.

“Well, of course I don’t want to urge you,” said she, “if you don’t feel like talking about it; but maybe it might do you good to tell it out, if it’s on your mind, worrying you.”

“I try to put it out of my mind,” said Mrs. Meserve.

“Well, it’s just as you feel.”

“I never told anybody but Simon,” said Mrs. Meserve.  “I never felt as if it was wise perhaps.  I didn’t know what folks might think.  So many don’t believe in anything they can’t understand, that they might think my mind wasn’t right.  Simon advised me not to talk about it.  He said he didn’t believe it was anything supernatural, but he had to own up that he couldn’t give any explanation for it to save his life.  He had to own up that he didn’t believe anybody could.  Then he said he wouldn’t talk about it.  He said lots of folks would sooner tell folks my head wasn’t right than to own up they couldn’t see through it.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t say so,” returned Mrs. Emerson reproachfully.  “You know better than that, I hope.”

“Yes, I do,” replied Mrs. Meserve.  “I know you wouldn’t say so.”

“And I wouldn’t tell it to a soul if you didn’t want me to.”

“Well, I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

“I won’t speak of it even to Mr. Emerson.”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t even to him.”

“I won’t.”

Mrs. Emerson took up her dress skirt again; Mrs. Meserve hooked up another loop of blue wool.  Then she begun: 

“Of course,” said she, “I ain’t going to say positively that I believe or disbelieve in ghosts, but all I tell you is what I saw.  I can’t explain it.  I don’t pretend I can, for I can’t.  If you can, well and good; I shall be glad, for it will stop tormenting me as it has done and always will otherwise.  There hasn’t been a day nor a night since it happened that I haven’t thought of it, and always I have felt the shivers go down my back when I did.”

“That’s an awful feeling,” Mrs. Emerson said.

“Ain’t it?  Well, it happened before I was married, when I was a girl and lived in East Wilmington.  It was the first year I lived there.  You know my family all died five years before that.  I told you.”

Mrs. Emerson nodded.