Indeed, it was not quite normal, nor was I. For by that time—­the middle of July it was before I figured out as much as I have set down in five minutes—­by that time I was not certain about the house.  It was difficult to say just what I felt about the house.  Willie, who came down over a Sunday early in the summer, possibly voiced it when he came down to his breakfast there.

“How did you sleep?” I asked.

“Not very well.”  He picked up his coffee-cup, and smiled over it rather sheepishly.  “To tell the truth, I got to thinking about things—­the furniture and all that,” he said vaguely.  “How many people have sat in the chairs and seen themselves in the mirror and died in the bed, and so on.”

Maggie, who was bringing in the toast, gave a sort of low moan, which she turned into a cough.

“There have been twenty-three deaths in it in the last forty years, Mr. Willie,” she volunteered.  “That’s according to the gardener.  And more than half died in that room of yours.”

“Put down that toast before you drop it, Maggie,” I said.  “You’re shaking all over.  And go out and shut the door.”

“Very well,” she said, with a meekness behind which she was both indignant and frightened.  “But there is one word I might mention before I go, and that is—­cats!”

“Cats!” said Willie, as she slammed the door.

“I think it is only one cat,” I observed mildly.  “It belongs to Miss Emily, I fancy.  It manages to be in a lot of places nearly simultaneously, and Maggie swears it is a dozen.”

Willie is not subtle.  He is a practical young man with a growing family, and a tendency the last year or two to flesh.  But he ate his breakfast thoughtfully.

“Don’t you think it’s rather isolated?” he asked finally.  “Just you three women here?” I had taken Delia, the cook, along.

“We have a telephone,” I said, rather loftily.  “Although—­” I checked myself.  Maggie, I felt sure, was listening in the pantry, and I intended to give her wild fancies no encouragement.  To utter a thing is, to Maggie, to give it life.  By the mere use of the spoken word it ceases to be supposition and becomes fact.

As a matter of fact, my uneasiness about the house resolved itself into an uneasiness about the telephone.  It seems less absurd now than it did then.  But I remember what Willie said about it that morning on our way to the church.

“It rings at night, Willie,” I said.  “And when I go there is no one there.”

“So do all telephones,” he replied briskly.  “It’s their greatest weakness.”

“Once or twice we have found the thing on the floor in the morning.  It couldn’t blow over or knock itself down.”

“Probably the cat,” he said, with the patient air of a man arguing with an unreasonable woman.  “Of course,” he added—­we were passing the churchyard then, dominated by what the village called the Benton “mosolem”—­“there’s a chance that those dead-and-gone Bentons resent anything as modern as a telephone.  It might be interesting to see what they would do to a victrola.”