That day was destined to be an eventful one, for when I entered the house and found Eliza ensconced in the upper hall on a chair, with Mary Anne doing her best to stifle her with household ammonia, and Liddy rubbing her wrists—­whatever good that is supposed to do—­I knew that the ghost had been walking again, and this time in daylight.

Eliza was in a frenzy of fear.  She clutched at my sleeve when I went close to her, and refused to let go until she had told her story.  Coming just after the fire, the household was demoralized, and it was no surprise to me to find Alex and the under-gardener struggling down-stairs with a heavy trunk between them.

“I didn’t want to do it, Miss Innes,” Alex said.  “But she was so excited, I was afraid she would do as she said—­drag it down herself, and scratch the staircase.”

I was trying to get my bonnet off and to keep the maids quiet at the same time.  “Now, Eliza, when you have washed your face and stopped bawling,” I said, “come into my sitting-room and tell me what has happened.”

Liddy put away my things without speaking.  The very set of her shoulders expressed disapproval.

“Well,” I said, when the silence became uncomfortable, “things seem to be warming up.”

Silence from Liddy, and a long sigh.

“If Eliza goes, I don’t know where to look for another cook.”  More silence.

“Rosie is probably a good cook.”  Sniff.

“Liddy,” I said at last, “don’t dare to deny that you are having the time of your life.  You positively gloat in this excitement.  You never looked better.  It’s my opinion all this running around, and getting jolted out of a rut, has stirred up that torpid liver of yours.”

“It’s not myself I’m thinking about,” she said, goaded into speech.  “Maybe my liver was torpid, and maybe it wasn’t; but I know this:  I’ve got some feelings left, and to see you standing at the foot of that staircase shootin’ through the door—­I’ll never be the same woman again.”

“Well, I’m glad of that—­anything for a change,” I said.  And in came Eliza, flanked by Rosie and Mary Anne.

Her story, broken with sobs and corrections from the other two, was this:  At two o’clock (two-fifteen, Rosie insisted) she had gone up-stairs to get a picture from her room to show Mary Anne.  (A picture of a lady, Mary Anne interposed.) She went up the servants’ staircase and along the corridor to her room, which lay between the trunk-room and the unfinished ball-room.  She heard a sound as she went down the corridor, like some one moving furniture, but she was not nervous.  She thought it might be men examining the house after the fire the night before, but she looked in the trunk-room and saw nobody.

She went into her room quietly.  The noise had ceased, and everything was quiet.  Then she sat down on the side of her bed, and, feeling faint—­she was subject to spells—­("I told you that when I came, didn’t I, Rosie?” “Yes’m, indeed she did!")—­she put her head down on her pillow and—­