The Wind in the Rose Bush

Ford Village has norailroad station, being on the other side of the
river from Porter's Falls, and accessible only by the ford whichgives
it its name, and a ferry line.

The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the trainwith her
bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safelyembarked
she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry- boat as it shot
swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached toa
light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. Hisowner
stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing,with as
dully reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat awoman of
about her own age, who kept looking at her with furtivecuriosity; her
husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebeccapaid,
no attention to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale,the
type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of
matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in acanvas
bag, on her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore asettled
frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother whoregarded
life as a froward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate.

The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid,except
for an over-developed curiosity which made her at times sharpbeyond
belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her flaccid cheeks;she
kept opening her mouth to speak, making little abortive motions.
Finally she could endure it no longer; she nudged Rebecca boldly.

"A pleasant day," said she.

Rebecca looked at her and nodded coldly.

"Yes, very," she assented.

"Have you come far?"

"I have come from Michigan."

"Oh!" said the woman, with awe. "It's a long way,"she remarked
presently.

"Yes, it is," replied Rebecca, conclusively.

Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something whichshe
determined to know, possibly roused thereto by a vague sense of
incongruity in the other's appearance. "It's a long ways tocome and
leave a family," she remarked with painful slyness.

"I ain't got any family to leave," returned Rebeccashortly.

"Then you ain't--"

"No, I ain't."

"Oh!" said the woman.

Rebecca looked straight ahead at the race of the river.

It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly
loquacious. She turned to the other woman and inquired if sheknew John
Dent's widow who lived in Ford Village. "Her husband diedabout three
years ago," said she, by way of detail.

The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed;she
cast a strange glance at her husband, who was regarding bothwomen with
a sort of stolid keenness.

"Yes, I guess I do," faltered the woman finally.

"Well, his first wife was my sister," said Rebecca withthe air of one
imparting important intelligence.

"Was she?" responded the other woman feebly. Sheglanced at her husband
with an expression of doubt and terror, and he shook his head
forbiddingly.

"I'm going to see her, and take my niece Agnes home with me,"said
Rebecca.

Then the woman gave such a violent start that she noticed it.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"Nothin', I guess," replied the woman, with eyes on herhusband, who was
slowly shaking his head, like a Chinese toy.

"Is my niece sick?" asked Rebecca with quick suspicion.

"No, she ain't sick," replied the woman with alacrity,then she caught
her breath with a gasp.

"When did you see her?"

"Let me see; I ain't seen her for some little time,"replied the woman.
Then she caught her breath again.

"She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes aftermy sister.
She was a real pretty woman," Rebecca said wistfully.

"Yes, I guess she did grow up pretty," replied thewoman in a trembling
voice.

"What kind of a woman is the second wife?"

The woman glanced at her husband's warning face. She continued togaze
at him while she replied in a choking voice to Rebecca:

"I--guess she's a nice woman," she replied. "I--don'tknow, I-- guess
so. I--don't see much of her."

"I felt kind of hurt that John married again so quick,"said Rebecca;
"but I suppose he wanted his house kept, and Agnes wantedcare. I
wasn't so situated that I could take her when her mother died. Ihad my
own mother to care for, and I was school-teaching. Now mother hasgone,
and my uncle died six months ago and left me quite a littleproperty,
and I've given up my school, and I've come for Agnes. I guessshe'll be
glad to go with me, though I suppose her stepmother is a goodwoman, and
has always done for her."

The man's warning shake at his wife was fairly portentous.

"I guess so," said she.

"John always wrote that she was a beautiful woman,"said Rebecca.

Then the ferry-boat grated on the shore.

John Dent's widow had sent a horse and wagon to meet her sister-in-law.
When the woman and her husband went down the road, on whichRebecca in
the wagon with her trunk soon passed them, she said reproachfully:

"Seems as if I'd ought to have told her, Thomas."

"Let her find it out herself," replied the man. "Don'tyou go to
burnin' your fingers in other folks' puddin', Maria."

"Do you s'pose she'll see anything?" asked the womanwith a spasmodic
shudder and a terrified roll of her eyes.

"See!" returned her husband with stolid scorn. "Betterbe sure there's
anything to see."

"Oh, Thomas, they say--"

"Lord, ain't you found out that what they say is mostlylies?"

"But if it should be true, and she's a nervous woman, shemight be
scared enough to lose her wits," said his wife, staringuneasily after
Rebecca's erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the crestof the
hilly road.

"Wits that so easy upset ain't worth much," declaredthe man. "You keep
out of it, Maria."

Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxen-headed
boy, who looked, to her understanding, not very bright. She askedhim a
question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it, and heresponded
with a bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she let him alone,after
making sure that he knew how to drive straight.

They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square,and gone
a short distance beyond, when the boy drew up with a sudden Whoa!before
a very prosperous-looking house. It had been one of theaboriginal
cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a roof extendingon one
side over a piazza, and a tiny "L" jutting out in therear, on the right
hand. Now the cottage was transformed by dormer windows, a baywindow
on the piazzaless side, a carved railing down the front steps,and a
modern hard-wood door.

"Is this John Dent's house?" asked Rebecca.

The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher. His onlyresponse
was in flinging the reins over the horse's back, stretching outone foot
to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon, then going around tothe
rear for the trunk. Rebecca got out and went toward the house.Its
white paint had a new gloss; its blinds were an immaculate applegreen;
the lawn was trimmed as smooth as velvet, and it was dotted with
scrupulous groups of hydrangeas and cannas.

"I always understood that John Dent was well-to-do,"Rebecca reflected
comfortably. "I guess Agnes will have considerable. I've gotenough,
but it will come in handy for her schooling. She can haveadvantages."

The boy dragged the trunk up the fine gravel-walk, but before hereached
the steps leading up to the piazza, for the house stood on aterrace,
the front door opened and a fair, frizzled head of a very largeand
handsome woman appeared. She held up her black silk skirt,disclosing
voluminous ruffles of starched embroidery, and waited for Rebecca.She
smiled placidly, her pink, double-chinned face widened anddimpled, but
her blue eyes were wary and calculating. She extended her hand as
Rebecca climbed the steps.

"This is Miss Flint, I suppose," said she.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Rebecca, noticing withbewilderment a curious
expression compounded of fear and defiance on the other's face.

"Your letter only arrived this morning," said Mrs.Dent, in a steady
voice. Her great face was a uniform pink, and her china- blueeyes were
at once aggressive and veiled with secrecy.

"Yes, I hardly thought you'd get my letter," repliedRebecca. "I felt
as if I could not wait to hear from you before I came. I supposedyou
would be so situated that you could have me a little whilewithout
putting you out too much, from what John used to write me abouthis
circumstances, and when I had that money so unexpected I felt asif I
must come for Agnes. I suppose you will be willing to give her up.You
know she's my own blood, and of course she's no relation to you,though
you must have got attached to her. I know from her picture what asweet
girl she must be, and John always said she looked like her ownmother,
and Grace was a beautiful woman, if she was my sister."

Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement andalarm.
The great handsome blonde creature stood speechless, livid,gasping,
with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horriblecaricature of
a smile.

"Are you sick!" cried Rebecca, drawing near. "Don'tyou want me to get
you some water!"

Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. "It isnothing,"
she said. "I am subject to--spells. I am over it now. Won'tyou come
in, Miss Flint?"

As she spoke, the beautiful deep-rose colour suffused her face,her blue
eyes met her visitor's with the opaqueness of turquoise--with a
revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind.

Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited
quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk. But before theyentered
the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace close tothe
piazza-post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late in theseason
though it was, one small red, perfect rose.

Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand witha quick
gesture. "Don't you pick that rose!" she brusquelycried.

Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity.

"I ain't in the habit of picking other folks' roses withoutleave," said
she.

As Rebecca spoke she started violently, and lost sight of her
resentment, for something singular happened. Suddenly the rose-bush
was agitated violently as if by a gust of wind, yet it was aremarkably
still day. Not a leaf of the hydrangea standing on the terraceclose to
the rose trembled.

"What on earth--" began Rebecca, then she stopped witha gasp at the
sight of the other woman's face. Although a face, it gave somehowthe
impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy.

"Come in!" said she in a harsh voice, which seemed tocome forth from
her chest with no intervention of the organs of speech. "Comeinto the
house. I'm getting cold out here."

"What makes that rose-bush blow so when their isn't anywind?" asked
Rebecca, trembling with vague horror, yet resolute.

"I don't see as it is blowing," returned the womancalmly. And as she
spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet.

"It was blowing," declared Rebecca.

"It isn't now," said Mrs. Dent. "I can't try toaccount for everything
that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do."

She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinchingeyes,
first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into thehouse.

"It looked queer," persisted Rebecca, but she followed,and also the boy
with the trunk.

Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, accordingto her
simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, andplenty of
brilliant upholstery and polished wood.

"You're real nicely situated," remarked Rebecca, aftershe had become a
little accustomed to her new surroundings and the two women wereseated
at the tea-table.

Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silver-plated
service. "Yes, I be," said she.

"You got all the things new?" said Rebeccahesitatingly, with a jealous
memory of her dead sister's bridal furnishings.

"Yes," said Mrs. Dent; "I was never one to wantdead folks' things, and
I had money enough of my own, so I wasn't beholden to John. I hadthe
old duds put up at auction. They didn't bring much."

"I suppose you saved some for Agnes. She'll want some of herpoor
mother's things when she is grown up," said Rebecca withsome
indignation.

The defiant stare of Mrs. Dent's blue eyes waxed more intense."There's
a few things up garret," said she.

"She'll be likely to value them," remarked Rebecca. Asshe spoke she
glanced at the window. "Isn't it most time for her to becoming home?"
she asked.

"Most time," answered Mrs. Dent carelessly; "butwhen she gets over to
Addie Slocum's she never knows when to come home."

"Is Addie Slocum her intimate friend?"

"Intimate as any."

"Maybe we can have her come out to see Agnes when she'sliving with me,"
said Rebecca wistfully. "I suppose she'll be likely to behomesick at
first."

"Most likely," answered Mrs. Dent.

"Does she call you mother?" Rebecca asked.

"No, she calls me Aunt Emeline," replied the otherwoman shortly. "When
did you say you were going home?"

"In about a week, I thought, if she can be ready to go sosoon,"
answered Rebecca with a surprised look.

She reflected that she would not remain a day longer than shecould help
after such an inhospitable look and question.

"Oh, as far as that goes," said Mrs. Dent, "itwouldn't make any
difference about her being ready. You could go home whenever youfelt
that you must, and she could come afterward."

"Alone?"

"Why not? She's a big girl now, and you don't have to changecars."

"My niece will go home when I do, and not travel alone; andif I can't
wait here for her, in the house that used to be her mother's andmy
sister's home, I'll go and board somewhere," returnedRebecca with
warmth.

"Oh, you can stay here as long as you want to. You'rewelcome," said
Mrs. Dent.

Then Rebecca started. "There she is!" she declared in atrembling,
exultant voice. Nobody knew how she longed to see the girl.

"She isn't as late as I thought she'd be," said Mrs.Dent, and again
that curious, subtle change passed over her face, and again itsettled
into that stony impassiveness.

Rebecca stared at the door, waiting for it to open. "Whereis she?" she
asked presently.

"I guess she's stopped to take off her hat in the entry,"suggested Mrs.
Dent.

Rebecca waited. "Why don't she come? It can't take her allthis time
to take off her hat."

For answer Mrs. Dent rose with a stiff jerk and threw open thedoor.

"Agnes!" she called. "Agnes!" Then she turnedand eyed Rebecca. "She
ain't there."

"I saw her pass the window," said Rebecca inbewilderment.

"You must have been mistaken."

"I know I did," persisted Rebecca.

"You couldn't have."

"I did. I saw first a shadow go over the ceiling, then I sawher in the
glass there"--she pointed to a mirror over the sideboardopposite--"and
then the shadow passed the window."

"How did she look in the glass?"

"Little and light-haired, with the light hair kind oftossing over her
forehead."

"You couldn't have seen her."

"Was that like Agnes?"

"Like enough; but of course you didn't see her. You've beenthinking so
much about her that you thought you did."

"You thought YOU did."

"I thought I saw a shadow pass the window, but I must havebeen
mistaken. She didn't come in, or we would have seen her beforenow. I
knew it was too early for her to get home from Addie Slocum's,anyhow."

When Rebecca went to bed Agnes had not returned. Rebecca hadresolved
that she would not retire until the girl came, but she was verytired,
and she reasoned with herself that she was foolish. Besides, Mrs.Dent
suggested that Agnes might go to the church social with AddieSlocum.
When Rebecca suggested that she be sent for and told that heraunt had
come, Mrs. Dent laughed meaningly.

"I guess you'll find out that a young girl ain't so ready toleave a
sociable, where there's boys, to see her aunt," said she.

"She's too young," said Rebecca incredulously andindignantly.

"She's sixteen," replied Mrs. Dent; "and she'salways been great for the
boys."

"She's going to school four years after I get her before shethinks of
boys," declared Rebecca.

"We'll see," laughed the other woman.

After Rebecca went to bed, she lay awake a long time listeningfor the
sound of girlish laughter and a boy's voice under her window;then she
fell asleep.

The next morning she was down early. Mrs. Dent, who kept noservants,
was busily preparing breakfast.

"Don't Agnes help you about breakfast?" asked Rebecca.

"No, I let her lay," replied Mrs. Dent shortly.

"What time did she get home last night?"

"She didn't get home."

"What?"

"She didn't get home. She stayed with Addie. She often does."

"Without sending you word?"

"Oh, she knew I wouldn't worry."

"When will she be home?"

"Oh, I guess she'll be along pretty soon."

Rebecca was uneasy, but she tried to conceal it, for she knew ofno good
reason for uneasiness. What was there to occasion alarm in thefact of
one young girl staying overnight with another? She could not eatmuch
breakfast. Afterward she went out on the little piazza, althoughher
hostess strove furtively to stop her.

"Why don't you go out back of the house? It's real pretty--aview over
the river," she said.

"I guess I'll go out here," replied Rebecca. She had apurpose: to
watch for the absent girl.

Presently Rebecca came hustling into the house through thesitting-
room, into the kitchen where Mrs. Dent was cooking.

"That rose-bush!" she gasped.

Mrs. Dent turned and faced her.

"What of it?"

"It's a-blowing."

"What of it?"

"There isn't a mite of wind this morning."

Mrs. Dent turned with an inimitable toss of her fair head. "Ifyou
think I can spend my time puzzling over such nonsense as--"she began,
but Rebecca interrupted her with a cry and a rush to the door.

"There she is now!" she cried. She flung the door wideopen, and
curiously enough a breeze came in and her own gray hair tossed,and a
paper blew off the table to the floor with a loud rustle, butthere was
nobody in sight.

"There's nobody here," Rebecca said.

She looked blankly at the other woman, who brought her rolling-pindown
on a slab of pie-crust with a thud.

"I didn't hear anybody," she said calmly.

"I SAW SOMEBODY PASS THAT WINDOW!"

"You were mistaken again."

"I KNOW I saw somebody."

"You couldn't have. Please shut that door."

Rebecca shut the door. She sat down beside the window and lookedout on
the autumnal yard, with its little curve of footpath to thekitchen
door.

"What smells so strong of roses in this room?" she saidpresently. She
sniffed hard.

"I don't smell anything but these nutmegs."

"It is not nutmeg."

"I don't smell anything else."

"Where do you suppose Agnes is?"

"Oh, perhaps she has gone over the ferry to Porter's Fallswith Addie.
She often does. Addie's got an aunt over there, and Addie's got a
cousin, a real pretty boy."

"You suppose she's gone over there?"

"Mebbe. I shouldn't wonder."

"When should she be home?"

"Oh, not before afternoon."

Rebecca waited with all the patience she could muster. She kept
reassuring herself, telling herself that it was all natural, thatthe
other woman could not help it, but she made up her mind that ifAgnes
did not return that afternoon she should be sent for.

When it was four o'clock she started up with resolution. She hadbeen
furtively watching the onyx clock on the sitting-room mantel; shehad
timed herself. She had said that if Agnes was not home by thattime she
should demand that she be sent for. She rose and stood before Mrs.
Dent, who looked up coolly from her embroidery.

"I've waited just as long as I'm going to," she said."I've come 'way
from Michigan to see my own sister's daughter and take her homewith me.
I've been here ever since yesterday--twenty-four hours--and Ihaven't
seen her. Now I'm going to. I want her sent for."

Mrs. Dent folded her embroidery and rose.

"Well, I don't blame you," she said. "It is hightime she came home.
I'll go right over and get her myself."

Rebecca heaved a sigh of relief. She hardly knew what she hadsuspected
or feared, but she knew that her position had been one ofantagonism if
not accusation, and she was sensible of relief.

"I wish you would," she said gratefully, and went backto her chair,
while Mrs. Dent got her shawl and her little white head-tie."I wouldn't
trouble you, but I do feel as if I couldn't wait any longer tosee her,"
she remarked apologetically.

"Oh, it ain't any trouble at all," said Mrs. Dent asshe went out. "I
don't blame you; you have waited long enough."

Rebecca sat at the window watching breathlessly until Mrs. Dentcame
stepping through the yard alone. She ran to the door and saw,hardly
noticing it this time, that the rose-bush was again violentlyagitated,
yet with no wind evident elsewhere.

"Where is she?" she cried.

Mrs. Dent laughed with stiff lips as she came up the steps overthe
terrace. "Girls will be girls," said she. "She'sgone with Addie to
Lincoln. Addie's got an uncle who's conductor on the train, andlives
there, and he got 'em passes, and they're goin' to stay toAddie's Aunt
Margaret's a few days. Mrs. Slocum said Agnes didn't have time tocome
over and ask me before the train went, but she took it on herselfto say
it would be all right, and--"

"Why hadn't she been over to tell you?" Rebecca wasangry, though not
suspicious. She even saw no reason for her anger.

"Oh, she was putting up grapes. She was coming over just assoon as she
got the black off her hands. She heard I had company, and herhands
were a sight. She was holding them over sulphur matches."

"You say she's going to stay a few days?" repeatedRebecca dazedly.

"Yes; till Thursday, Mrs. Slocum said."

"How far is Lincoln from here?"

"About fifty miles. It'll be a real treat to her. Mrs.Slocum's sister
is a real nice woman."

"It is goin' to make it pretty late about my goin' home."

"If you don't feel as if you could wait, I'll get her readyand send her
on just as soon as I can," Mrs. Dent said sweetly.

"I'm going to wait," said Rebecca grimly.

The two women sat down again, and Mrs. Dent took up herembroidery.

"Is there any sewing I can do for her?" Rebecca askedfinally in a
desperate way. "If I can get her sewing along some--"

Mrs. Dent arose with alacrity and fetched a mass of white fromthe
closet. "Here," she said, "if you want to sew thelace on this
nightgown. I was going to put her to it, but she'll be gladenough to
get rid of it. She ought to have this and one more before shegoes. I
don't like to send her away without some good underclothing."

Rebecca snatched at the little white garment and sewed feverishly.

That night she wakened from a deep sleep a little after midnightand lay
a minute trying to collect her faculties and explain to herselfwhat she
was listening to. At last she discovered that it was the thenpopular
strains of "The Maiden's Prayer" floating up throughthe floor from the
piano in the sitting-room below. She jumped up, threw a shawlover her
nightgown, and hurried downstairs trembling. There was nobody inthe
sitting-room; the piano was silent. She ran to Mrs. Dent'sbedroom and
called hysterically:

"Emeline! Emeline!"

"What is it?" asked Mrs. Dent's voice from the bed. Thevoice was
stern, but had a note of consciousness in it.

"Who--who was that playing 'The Maiden's Prayer' in thesitting- room,
on the piano?"

"I didn't hear anybody."

"There was some one."

"I didn't hear anything."

"I tell you there was some one. But--THERE AIN'T ANYBODYTHERE."

"I didn't hear anything."

"I did--somebody playing 'The Maiden's Prayer' on the piano.Has Agnes
got home? I WANT TO KNOW."

"Of course Agnes hasn't got home," answered Mrs. Dentwith rising
inflection. "Be you gone crazy over that girl? The last boatfrom
Porter's Falls was in before we went to bed. Of course she ain'tcome."

"I heard--"

"You were dreaming."

"I wasn't; I was broad awake."

Rebecca went back to her chamber and kept her lamp burning allnight.

The next morning her eyes upon Mrs. Dent were wary and blazingwith
suppressed excitement. She kept opening her mouth as if to speak,then
frowning, and setting her lips hard. After breakfast she wentupstairs,
and came down presently with her coat and bonnet.

"Now, Emeline," she said, "I want to know wherethe Slocums live."

Mrs. Dent gave a strange, long, half-lidded glance at her. Shewas
finishing her coffee.

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm going over there and find out if they have heardanything from her
daughter and Agnes since they went away. I don't like what Iheard last
night."

"You must have been dreaming."

"It don't make any odds whether I was or not. Does she play'The
Maiden's Prayer' on the piano? I want to know."

"What if she does? She plays it a little, I believe. I don'tknow.
She don't half play it, anyhow; she ain't got an ear."

"That wasn't half played last night. I don't like suchthings
happening. I ain't superstitious, but I don't like it. I'm going.
Where do the Slocum's live?"

"You go down the road over the bridge past the old gristmill, then you
turn to the left; it's the only house for half a mile. You can tmiss
it. It has a barn with a ship in full sail on the cupola."

"Well, I'm going. I don't feel easy."

About two hours later Rebecca returned. There were red spots onher
cheeks. She looked wild. "I've been there," she said,and there isn't
a soul at home. Something HAS happened."

"What has happened?"

"I don't know. Something. I had a warning last night. Therewasn't a
soul there. They've been sent for to Lincoln."

"Did you see anybody to ask?" asked Mrs. Dent withthinly concealed
anxiety.

"I asked the woman that lives on the turn of the road. She'sstone
deaf. I suppose you know. She listened while I screamed at her toknow
where the Slocums were, and then she said, 'Mrs. Smith don't livehere.'
I didn't see anybody on the road, and that's the only house. Whatdo
you suppose it means?"

"I don't suppose it means much of anything," repliedMrs. Dent coolly.
"Mr. Slocum is conductor on the railroad, and he'd be awayanyway, and
Mrs. Slocum often goes early when he does, to spend the day withher
sister in Porter's Falls. She'd be more likely to go away thanAddie."

"And you don't think anything has happened?" Rebeccaasked with
diminishing distrust before the reasonableness of it.

"Land, no!"

Rebecca went upstairs to lay aside her coat and bonnet. But shecame
hurrying back with them still on.

"Who's been in my room?" she gasped. Her face was paleas ashes.

Mrs. Dent also paled as she regarded her.

"What do you mean?" she asked slowly.

"I found when I went upstairs that--little nightgown of--Agnes'son--the
bed, laid out. It was--LAID OUT. The sleeves were folded acrossthe
bosom, and there was that little red rose between them. Emeline,what is
it? Emeline, what's the matter? Oh!"

Mrs. Dent was struggling for breath in great, choking gasps. Sheclung
to the back of a chair. Rebecca, trembling herself so she could
scarcely keep on her feet, got her some water.

As soon as she recovered herself Mrs. Dent regarded her with eyesfull
of the strangest mixture of fear and horror and hostility.

"What do you mean talking so?" she said in a hard voice.

"It IS THERE."

"Nonsense. You threw it down and it fell that way."

"It was folded in my bureau drawer."

"It couldn't have been."

"Who picked that red rose?"

"Look on the bush," Mrs. Dent replied shortly.

Rebecca looked at her; her mouth gaped. She hurried out of theroom.
When she came back her eyes seemed to protrude. (She had in the
meantime hastened upstairs, and come down with tottering steps,clinging
to the banisters.)

"Now I want to know what all this means?" she demanded.

"What what means?"

"The rose is on the bush, and it's gone from the bed in myroom! Is this
house haunted, or what?"

"I don't know anything about a house being haunted. I don'tbelieve in
such things. Be you crazy?" Mrs. Dent spoke with gatheringforce. The
colour flashed back to her cheeks.

"No," said Rebecca shortly. "I ain't crazy yet,but I shall be if this
keeps on much longer. I'm going to find out where that girl isbefore
night."

Mrs. Dent eyed her.

"What be you going to do?"

"I'm going to Lincoln."

A faint triumphant smile overspread Mrs. Dent's large face.

"You can't," said she; "there ain't any train."

"No train?"

"No; there ain't any afternoon train from the Falls toLincoln."

"Then I'm going over to the Slocums' again to-night."

However, Rebecca did not go; such a rain came up as deterred evenher
resolution, and she had only her best dresses with her. Then inthe
evening came the letter from the Michigan village which she hadleft
nearly a week ago. It was from her cousin, a single woman, whohad come
to keep her house while she was away. It was a pleasantunexciting
letter enough, all the first of it, and related mostly how shemissed
Rebecca; how she hoped she was having pleasant weather and kepther
health; and how her friend, Mrs. Greenaway, had come to stay withher
since she had felt lonesome the first night in the house; how shehoped
Rebecca would have no objections to this, although nothing hadbeen said
about it, since she had not realized that she might be nervousalone.
The cousin was painfully conscientious, hence the letter. Rebecca
smiled in spite of her disturbed mind as she read it, then hereye
caught the postscript. That was in a different hand, purportingto be
written by the friend, Mrs. Hannah Greenaway, informing her thatthe
cousin had fallen down the cellar stairs and broken her hip, andwas in
a dangerous condition, and begging Rebecca to return at once, asshe
herself was rheumatic and unable to nurse her properly, and noone else
could be obtained.

Rebecca looked at Mrs. Dent, who had come to her room with theletter
quite late; it was half-past nine, and she had gone upstairs forthe
night.

"Where did this come from?" she asked.

"Mr. Amblecrom brought it," she replied.

"Who's he?"

"The postmaster. He often brings the letters that come onthe late
mail. He knows I ain't anybody to send. He brought yours aboutyour
coming. He said he and his wife came over on the ferry-boat withyou."

"I remember him," Rebecca replied shortly. "There'sbad news in this
letter."

Mrs. Dent's face took on an expression of serious inquiry.

"Yes, my Cousin Harriet has fallen down the cellar stairs--theywere
always dangerous--and she's broken her hip, and I've got to takethe
first train home to-morrow."

"You don't say so. I'm dreadfully sorry."

"No, you ain't sorry!" said Rebecca, with a look as ifshe leaped.
"You're glad. I don't know why, but you're glad. You'vewanted to get
rid of me for some reason ever since I came. I don't know why.You're a
strange woman. Now you've got your way, and I hope you'resatisfied."

"How you talk."

Mrs. Dent spoke in a faintly injured voice, but there was a lightin her
eyes.

"I talk the way it is. Well, I'm going to-morrow morning,and I want
you, just as soon as Agnes Dent comes home, to send her out to me.
Don't you wait for anything. You pack what clothes she's got, anddon't
wait even to mend them, and you buy her ticket. I'll leave themoney,
and you send her along. She don't have to change cars. You starther
off, when she gets home, on the next train!"

"Very well," replied the other woman. She had anexpression of covert
amusement.

"Mind you do it."

"Very well, Rebecca."

Rebecca started on her journey the next morning. When shearrived, two
days later, she found her cousin in perfect health. She found,
moreover, that the friend had not written the postscript in thecousin's
letter. Rebecca would have returned to Ford Village the nextmorning,
but the fatigue and nervous strain had been too much for her. Shewas
not able to move from her bed. She had a species of low feverinduced
by anxiety and fatigue. But she could write, and she did, to the
Slocums, and she received no answer. She also wrote to Mrs. Dent;she
even sent numerous telegrams, with no response. Finally she wroteto
the postmaster, and an answer arrived by the first possible mail.The
letter was short, curt, and to the purpose. Mr. Amblecrom, the
postmaster, was a man of few words, and especially wary as to his
expressions in a letter.

"Dear madam," he wrote, "your favour rec'ed. NoSlocums in Ford's
Village. All dead. Addie ten years ago, her mother two yearslater,
her father five. House vacant. Mrs. John Dent said to haveneglected
stepdaughter. Girl was sick. Medicine not given. Talk of taking
action. Not enough evidence. House said to be haunted. Strangesights
and sounds. Your niece, Agnes Dent, died a year ago, about thistime.

"Yours truly,

"THOMAS AMBLECROM."