The Lost Ghost

Mrs. John Emerson,sitting with her needlework beside the window, looked
out and saw Mrs. Rhoda Meserve coming down the street, and knewat once
by the trend of her steps and the cant of her head that shemeditated
turning in at her gate. She also knew by a certain somethingabout her
general carriage--a thrusting forward of the neck, a bustlinghitch of
the shoulders--that she had important news. Rhoda Meserve alwayshad
the news as soon as the news was in being, and generally Mrs.John
Emerson was the first to whom she imparted it. The two women hadbeen
friends ever since Mrs. Meserve had married Simon Meserve andcome to
the village to live.

Mrs. Meserve was a pretty woman, moving with graceful flirts ofruffling
skirts; her clear-cut, nervous face, as delicately tinted as ashell,
looked brightly from the plumy brim of a black hat at Mrs.Emerson in
the window. Mrs. Emerson was glad to see her coming. She returnedthe
greeting with enthusiasm, then rose hurriedly, ran into the coldparlour
and brought out one of the best rocking-chairs. She was just intime,
after drawing it up beside the opposite window, to greet herfriend at
the door.

"Good-afternoon," said she. "I declare, I'm realglad to see you. I've
been alone all day. John went to the city this morning. I thoughtof
coming over to your house this afternoon, but I couldn't bring mysewing
very well. I am putting the ruffles on my new black dress skirt."

"Well, I didn't have a thing on hand except my crochet work,"responded
Mrs. Meserve, "and I thought I'd just run over a few minutes."

"I'm real glad you did," repeated Mrs. Emerson. "Takeyour things right
off. Here, I'll put them on my bed in the bedroom. Take the
rocking-chair."

Mrs. Meserve settled herself in the parlour rocking-chair, whileMrs.
Emerson carried her shawl and hat into the little adjoiningbedroom.
When she returned Mrs. Meserve was rocking peacefully and wasalready at
work hooking blue wool in and out.

"That's real pretty," said Mrs. Emerson.

"Yes, I think it's pretty," replied Mrs. Meserve.

"I suppose it's for the church fair?"

"Yes. I don't suppose it'll bring enough to pay for theworsted, let
alone the work, but I suppose I've got to make something."

"How much did that one you made for the fair last yearbring?"

"Twenty-five cents."

"It's wicked, ain't it?"

"I rather guess it is. It takes me a week every minute I canget to
make one. I wish those that bought such things for twenty-fivecents
had to make them. Guess they'd sing another song. Well, I supposeI
oughtn't to complain as long as it is for the Lord, but sometimesit
does seem as if the Lord didn't get much out of it."

"Well, it's pretty work," said Mrs. Emerson, sittingdown at the
opposite window and taking up her dress skirt.

"Yes, it is real pretty work. I just LOVE to crochet."

The two women rocked and sewed and crocheted in silence for twoor three
minutes. They were both waiting. Mrs. Meserve waited for theother's
curiosity to develop in order that her news might have, as itwere, a
befitting stage entrance. Mrs. Emerson waited for the news.Finally
she could wait no longer.

"Well, what's the news?" said she.

"Well, I don't know as there's anything very particular,"hedged the
other woman, prolonging the situation.

"Yes, there is; you can't cheat me," replied Mrs.Emerson.

"Now, how do you know?"

"By the way you look."

Mrs. Meserve laughed consciously and rather vainly.

"Well, Simon says my face is so expressive I can't hideanything more
than five minutes no matter how hard I try," said she."Well, there is
some news. Simon came home with it this noon. He heard it inSouth
Dayton. He had some business over there this morning. The oldSargent
place is let."

Mrs. Emerson dropped her sewing and stared.

"You don't say so!"

"Yes, it is."

"Who to?"

"Why, some folks from Boston that moved to South Dayton lastyear. They
haven't been satisfied with the house they had there--it wasn'tlarge
enough. The man has got considerable property and can afford tolive
pretty well. He's got a wife and his unmarried sister in thefamily.
The sister's got money, too. He does business in Boston and it'sjust
as easy to get to Boston from here as from South Dayton, and sothey're
coming here. You know the old Sargent house is a splendid place."

"Yes, it's the handsomest house in town, but--"

"Oh, Simon said they told him about that and he just laughed.Said he
wasn't afraid and neither was his wife and sister. Said he'd risk
ghosts rather than little tucked-up sleeping-rooms without anysun, like
they've had in the Dayton house. Said he'd rather risk SEEINGghosts,
than risk being ghosts themselves. Simon said they said he was agreat
hand to joke."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Emerson, "it is a beautifulhouse, and maybe there
isn't anything in those stories. It never seemed to me they camevery
straight anyway. I never took much stock in them. All I thought
was--if his wife was nervous."

"Nothing in creation would hire me to go into a house thatI'd ever
heard a word against of that kind," declared Mrs. Meservewith emphasis.
"I wouldn't go into that house if they would give me therent. I've
seen enough of haunted houses to last me as long as I live."

Mrs. Emerson's face acquired the expression of a hunting hound.

"Have you?" she asked in an intense whisper.

"Yes, I have. I don't want any more of it."

"Before you came here?"

"Yes; before I was married--when I was quite a girl."

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

"Did you really live in a house that was--" shewhispered 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 inone 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 itout, 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. Somany
don't believe in anything they can't understand, that they mightthink
my mind wasn't right. Simon advised me not to talk about it. Hesaid
he didn't believe it was anything supernatural, but he had to ownup
that he couldn't give any explanation for it to save his life. Hehad
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 tellfolks
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. Emersonreproachfully. "You
know better than that, I hope."

"Yes, I do," replied Mrs. Meserve. "I know youwouldn'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 hookedup
another loop of blue wool. Then she begun:

"Of course," said she, "I ain't going to saypositively that I believe
or disbelieve in ghosts, but all I tell you is what I saw. Ican't
explain it. I don't pretend I can, for I can't. If you can, welland
good; I shall be glad, for it will stop tormenting me as it hasdone and
always will otherwise. There hasn't been a day nor a night sinceit
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 Iwas 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.

"Well, I went there to teach school, and I went to boardwith a Mrs.
Amelia Dennison and her sister, Mrs. Bird. Abby, her name was--Abby
Bird. She was a widow; she had never had any children. She had alittle
money--Mrs. Dennison didn't have any--and she had come to East
Wilmington and bought the house they lived in. It was a realpretty
house, though it was very old and run down. It had cost Mrs. Birda
good deal to put it in order. I guess that was the reason theytook me
to board. I guess they thought it would help along a little. Iguess
what I paid for my board about kept us all in victuals. Mrs. Birdhad
enough to live on if they were careful, but she had spent so muchfixing
up the old house that they must have been a little pinched forawhile.

"Anyhow, they took me to board, and I thought I was prettylucky to get
in there. I had a nice room, big and sunny and furnished pretty,the
paper and paint all new, and everything as neat as wax. Mrs.Dennison
was one of the best cooks I ever saw, and I had a little stove inmy
room, and there was always a nice fire there when I got home from
school. I thought I hadn't been in such a nice place since I lostmy
own home, until I had been there about three weeks.

"I had been there about three weeks before I found it out,though I
guess it had been going on ever since they had been in the house,and
that was most four months. They hadn't said anything about it,and I
didn't wonder, for there they had just bought the house and beento so
much expense and trouble fixing it up.

"Well, I went there in September. I begun my school thefirst Monday.
I remember it was a real cold fall, there was a frost the middleof
September, and I had to put on my winter coat. I remember when Icame
home that night (let me see, I began school on a Monday, and thatwas
two weeks from the next Thursday), I took off my coat downstairsand
laid it on the table in the front entry. It was a real nice coat--heavy
black broadcloth trimmed with fur; I had had it the winter before.Mrs.
Bird called after me as I went upstairs that I ought not to leaveit in
the front entry for fear somebody might come in and take it, butI only
laughed and called back to her that I wasn't afraid. I never wasmuch
afraid of burglars.

"Well, though it was hardly the middle of September, it wasa real cold
night. I remember my room faced west, and the sun was gettinglow, and
the sky was a pale yellow and purple, just as you see itsometimes in
the winter when there is going to be a cold snap. I rather thinkthat
was the night the frost came the first time. I know Mrs. Dennison
covered up some flowers she had in the front yard, anyhow. Iremember
looking out and seeing an old green plaid shawl of hers over theverbena
bed. There was a fire in my little wood-stove. Mrs. Bird made it,I
know. She was a real motherly sort of woman; she always seemed tobe
the happiest when she was doing something to make other folkshappy and
comfortable. Mrs. Dennison told me she had always been so. Shesaid
she had coddled her husband within an inch of his life. 'It'slucky
Abby never had any children,' she said, 'for she would havespoilt
them.'

"Well, that night I sat down beside my nice little fire andate an
apple. There was a plate of nice apples on my table. Mrs. Birdput
them there. I was always very fond of apples. Well, I sat downand ate
an apple, and was having a beautiful time, and thinking how luckyI was
to have got board in such a place with such nice folks, when Iheard a
queer little sound at my door. It was such a little hesitatingsort of
sound that it sounded more like a fumble than a knock, as if someone
very timid, with very little hands, was feeling along the door,not
quite daring to knock. For a minute I thought it was a mouse. ButI
waited and it came again, and then I made up my mind it was aknock, but
a very little scared one, so I said, 'Come in.'

"But nobody came in, and then presently I heard the knockagain. Then I
got up and opened the door, thinking it was very queer, and I hada
frightened feeling without knowing why.

"Well, I opened the door, and the first thing I noticed wasa draught of
cold air, as if the front door downstairs was open, but there wasa
strange close smell about the cold draught. It smelled more likea
cellar that had been shut up for years, than out-of- doors. ThenI saw
something. I saw my coat first. The thing that held it was sosmall
that I couldn't see much of anything else. Then I saw a littlewhite
face with eyes so scared and wishful that they seemed as if theymight
eat a hole in anybody's heart. It was a dreadful little face,with
something about it which made it different from any other face onearth,
but it was so pitiful that somehow it did away a good deal withthe
dreadfulness. And there were two little hands spotted purple withthe
cold, holding up my winter coat, and a strange little far-awayvoice
said: 'I can't find my mother.'

"'For Heaven's sake,' I said, 'who are you?'

"Then the little voice said again: 'I can't find my mother.'

"All the time I could smell the cold and I saw that it wasabout the
child; that cold was clinging to her as if she had come out ofsome
deadly cold place. Well, I took my coat, I did not know what elseto
do, and the cold was clinging to that. It was as cold as if ithad come
off ice. When I had the coat I could see the child more plainly.She
was dressed in one little white garment made very simply. It wasa
nightgown, only very long, quite covering her feet, and I couldsee
dimly through it her little thin body mottled purple with thecold. Her
face did not look so cold; that was a clear waxen white. Her hairwas
dark, but it looked as if it might be dark only because it was sodamp,
almost wet, and might really be light hair. It clung very closeto her
forehead, which was round and white. She would have been verybeautiful
if she had not been so dreadful.

"'Who are you?' says I again, looking at her.

"She looked at me with her terrible pleading eyes and didnot say
anything.

"'What are you?' says I. Then she went away. She did notseem to run
or walk like other children. She flitted, like one of thoselittle
filmy white butterflies, that don't seem like real ones they areso
light, and move as if they had no weight. But she looked backfrom the
head of the stairs. 'I can't find my mother,' said she, and Inever
heard such a voice.

"'Who is your mother?' says I, but she was gone.

"Well, I thought for a moment I should faint away. The roomgot dark
and I heard a singing in my ears. Then I flung my coat onto thebed.
My hands were as cold as ice from holding it, and I stood in mydoor,
and called first Mrs. Bird and then Mrs. Dennison. I didn't darego
down over the stairs where that had gone. It seemed to me Ishould go
mad if I didn't see somebody or something like other folks on theface
of the earth. I thought I should never make anybody hear, but Icould
hear them stepping about downstairs, and I could smell biscuitsbaking
for supper. Somehow the smell of those biscuits seemed the onlynatural
thing left to keep me in my right mind. I didn't dare go overthose
stairs. I just stood there and called, and finally I heard theentry
door open and Mrs. Bird called back:

"'What is it? Did you call, Miss Arms?'

"'Come up here; come up here as quick as you can, both ofyou,' I
screamed out; 'quick, quick, quick!'

"I heard Mrs. Bird tell Mrs. Dennison: 'Come quick, Amelia,something is
the matter in Miss Arms' room.' It struck me even then that she
expressed herself rather queerly, and it struck me as very queer,
indeed, when they both got upstairs and I saw that they knew whathad
happened, or that they knew of what nature the happening was.

"'What is it, dear?' asked Mrs. Bird, and her pretty, lovingvoice had a
strained sound. I saw her look at Mrs. Dennison and I saw Mrs.Dennison
look back at her.

"'For God's sake,' says I, and I never spoke so before--'forGod's sake,
what was it brought my coat upstairs?'

"'What was it like?' asked Mrs. Dennison in a sort offailing voice, and
she looked at her sister again and her sister looked back at her.

"'It was a child I have never seen here before. It lookedlike a
child,' says I, 'but I never saw a child so dreadful, and it hadon a
nightgown, and said she couldn't find her mother. Who was it?What was
it?'

"I thought for a minute Mrs. Dennison was going to faint,but Mrs. Bird
hung onto her and rubbed her hands, and whispered in her ear (shehad
the cooingest kind of voice), and I ran and got her a glass ofcold
water. I tell you it took considerable courage to go downstairsalone,
but they had set a lamp on the entry table so I could see. Idon't
believe I could have spunked up enough to have gone downstairs inthe
dark, thinking every second that child might be close to me. Thelamp
and the smell of the biscuits baking seemed to sort of keep mycourage
up, but I tell you I didn't waste much time going down thosestairs and
out into the kitchen for a glass of water. I pumped as if thehouse was
afire, and I grabbed the first thing I came across in the shapeof a
tumbler: it was a painted one that Mrs. Dennison's Sunday schoolclass
gave her, and it was meant for a flower vase.

"Well, I filled it and then ran upstairs. I felt everyminute as if
something would catch my feet, and I held the glass to Mrs.Dennison's
lips, while Mrs. Bird held her head up, and she took a good long
swallow, then she looked hard at the tumbler.

"'Yes,' says I, 'I know I got this one, but I took the firstI came
across, and it isn't hurt a mite.'

"'Don't get the painted flowers wet,' says Mrs. Dennisonvery feebly,
'they'll wash off if you do.'

"'I'll be real careful,' says I. I knew she set a sight bythat painted
tumbler.

"The water seemed to do Mrs. Dennison good, for presentlyshe pushed
Mrs. Bird away and sat up. She had been laying down on my bed.

"'I'm all over it now,' says she, but she was terriblywhite, and her
eyes looked as if they saw something outside things. Mrs. Birdwasn't
much better, but she always had a sort of settled sweet, goodlook that
nothing could disturb to any great extent. I knew I lookeddreadful,
for I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass, and I would hardlyhave
known who it was.

"Mrs. Dennison, she slid off the bed and walked sort oftottery to a
chair. 'I was silly to give way so,' says she.

"'No, you wasn't silly, sister,' says Mrs. Bird. 'I don'tknow what
this means any more than you do, but whatever it is, no one oughtto be
called silly for being overcome by anything so different fromother
things which we have known all our lives.'

"Mrs. Dennison looked at her sister, then she looked at me,then back at
her sister again, and Mrs. Bird spoke as if she had been asked a
question.

"'Yes,' says she, 'I do think Miss Arms ought to be told--thatis, I
think she ought to be told all we know ourselves.'

"'That isn't much,' said Mrs. Dennison with a dying-awaysort of sigh.
She looked as if she might faint away again any minute. She was areal
delicate-looking woman, but it turned out she was a good dealstronger
than poor Mrs. Bird.

"'No, there isn't much we do know,' says Mrs. Bird, 'butwhat little
there is she ought to know. I felt as if she ought to when shefirst
came here.'

"'Well, I didn't feel quite right about it,' said Mrs.Dennison, 'but I
kept hoping it might stop, and any way, that it might nevertrouble her,
and you had put so much in the house, and we needed the money,and I
didn't know but she might be nervous and think she couldn't come,and I
didn't want to take a man boarder.'

"'And aside from the money, we were very anxious to have youcome, my
dear,' says Mrs. Bird.

"'Yes,' says Mrs. Dennison, 'we wanted the young company inthe house;
we were lonesome, and we both of us took a great liking to youthe
minute we set eyes on you.'

"And I guess they meant what they said, both of them. Theywere
beautiful women, and nobody could be any kinder to me than theywere,
and I never blamed them for not telling me before, and, as theysaid,
there wasn't really much to tell.

"They hadn't any sooner fairly bought the house, and movedinto it, than
they began to see and hear things. Mrs. Bird said they weresitting
together in the sitting-room one evening when they heard it thefirst
time. She said her sister was knitting lace (Mrs. Dennison made
beautiful knitted lace) and she was reading the Missionary Herald(Mrs.
Bird was very much interested in mission work), when all of asudden
they heard something. She heard it first and she laid down her
Missionary Herald and listened, and then Mrs. Dennison she sawher
listening and she drops her lace. 'What is it you are listeningto,
Abby?' says she. Then it came again and they both heard, and thecold
shivers went down their backs to hear it, though they didn't knowwhy.
'It's the cat, isn't it?' says Mrs. Bird.

"'It isn't any cat,' says Mrs. Dennison.

"'Oh, I guess it MUST be the cat; maybe she's got a mouse,'says Mrs.
Bird, real cheerful, to calm down Mrs. Dennison, for she saw shewas
'most scared to death, and she was always afraid of her faintingaway.
Then she opens the door and calls, 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' Theyhad
brought their cat with them in a basket when they came to East
Wilmington to live. It was a real handsome tiger cat, a tommy,and he
knew a lot.

"Well, she called 'Kitty, kitty, kitty!' and sure enough thekitty came,
and when he came in the door he gave a big yawl that didn't soundunlike
what they had heard.

"'There, sister, here he is; you see it was the cat,' saysMrs. Bird.
'Poor kitty!'

"But Mrs. Dennison she eyed the cat, and she give a greatscreech.

"'What's that? What's that?' says she.

"'What's what?' says Mrs. Bird, pretending to herself thatshe didn't
see what her sister meant.

"'Somethin's got hold of that cat's tail,' says Mrs.Dennison.
'Somethin's got hold of his tail. It's pulled straight out, an'he
can't get away. Just hear him yawl!'

"'It isn't anything,' says Mrs. Bird, but even as she saidthat she
could see a little hand holding fast to that cat's tail, and thenthe
child seemed to sort of clear out of the dimness behind the hand,and
the child was sort of laughing then, instead of looking sad, andshe
said that was a great deal worse. She said that laugh was themost
awful and the saddest thing she ever heard.

"Well, she was so dumfounded that she didn't know what todo, and she
couldn't sense at first that it was anything supernatural. Shethought
it must be one of the neighbour's children who had run away andwas
making free of their house, and was teasing their cat, and thatthey
must be just nervous to feel so upset by it. So she speaks upsort of
sharp.

"'Don't you know that you mustn't pull the kitty's tail?'says she.
'Don't you know you hurt the poor kitty, and she'll scratch youif you
don't take care. Poor kitty, you mustn't hurt her.'

"And with that she said the child stopped pulling that cat'stail and
went to stroking her just as soft and pitiful, and the cat puthis back
up and rubbed and purred as if he liked it. The cat never seemeda mite
afraid, and that seemed queer, for I had always heard thatanimals were
dreadfully afraid of ghosts; but then, that was a pretty harmlesslittle
sort of ghost.

"Well, Mrs. Bird said the child stroked that cat, while sheand Mrs.
Dennison stood watching it, and holding onto each other, for, nomatter
how hard they tried to think it was all right, it didn't lookright.
Finally Mrs. Dennison she spoke.

"'What's your name, little girl?' says she.

"Then the child looks up and stops stroking the cat, andsays she can't
find her mother, just the way she said it to me. Then Mrs.Dennison she
gave such a gasp that Mrs. Bird thought she was going to faintaway, but
she didn't. 'Well, who is your mother?' says she. But the childjust
says again 'I can't find my mother--I can't find my mother.'

"'Where do you live, dear?' says Mrs. Bird.

"'I can't find my mother,' says the child.

"Well, that was the way it was. Nothing happened. Those twowomen
stood there hanging onto each other, and the child stood in frontof
them, and they asked her questions, and everything she would saywas: 'I
can't find my mother.'

"Then Mrs. Bird tried to catch hold of the child, for shethought in
spite of what she saw that perhaps she was nervous and it was areal
child, only perhaps not quite right in its head, that had runaway in
her little nightgown after she had been put to bed.

"She tried to catch the child. She had an idea of putting ashawl
around it and going out--she was such a little thing she couldhave
carried her easy enough--and trying to find out to which of the
neighbours she belonged. But the minute she moved toward thechild
there wasn't any child there; there was only that little voiceseeming
to come from nothing, saying 'I can't find my mother,' andpresently
that died away.

"Well, that same thing kept happening, or something verymuch the same.
Once in awhile Mrs. Bird would be washing dishes, and all at oncethe
child would be standing beside her with the dish-towel, wipingthem. Of
course, that was terrible. Mrs. Bird would wash the dishes allover.
Sometimes she didn't tell Mrs. Dennison, it made her so nervous.
Sometimes when they were making cake they would find the raisinsall
picked over, and sometimes little sticks of kindling-wood wouldbe found
laying beside the kitchen stove. They never knew when they wouldcome
across that child, and always she kept saying over and over thatshe
couldn't find her mother. They never tried talking to her, exceptonce
in awhile Mrs. Bird would get desperate and ask her something,but the
child never seemed to hear it; she always kept right on sayingthat she
couldn't find her mother.

"After they had told me all they had to tell about theirexperience with
the child, they told me about the house and the people that hadlived
there before they did. It seemed something dreadful had happenedin
that house. And the land agent had never let on to them. I don'tthink
they would have bought it if he had, no matter how cheap it was,for
even if folks aren't really afraid of anything, they don't wantto live
in houses where such dreadful things have happened that you keep
thinking about them. I know after they told me I should neverhave
stayed there another night, if I hadn't thought so much of them,no
matter how comfortable I was made; and I never was nervous,either. But
I stayed. Of course, it didn't happen in my room. If it had Icould
not have stayed."

"What was it?" asked Mrs. Emerson in an awed voice.

"It was an awful thing. That child had lived in the housewith her
father and mother two years before. They had come--or the father
had--from a real good family. He had a good situation: he was adrummer
for a big leather house in the city, and they lived real pretty,with
plenty to do with. But the mother was a real wicked woman. Shewas as
handsome as a picture, and they said she came from good sort ofpeople
enough in Boston, but she was bad clean through, though she wasreal
pretty spoken and most everybody liked her. She used to dress outand
make a great show, and she never seemed to take much interest inthe
child, and folks began to say she wasn't treated right.

"The woman had a hard time keeping a girl. For some reasonone wouldn't
stay. They would leave and then talk about her awfully, tellingall
kinds of things. People didn't believe it at first; then theybegan to.
They said that the woman made that little thing, though shewasn't much
over five years old, and small and babyish for her age, do mostof the
work, what there was done; they said the house used to look likea
pig-sty when she didn't have help. They said the little thingused to
stand on a chair and wash dishes, and they'd seen her carrying insticks
of wood most as big as she was many a time, and they'd heard hermother
scolding her. The woman was a fine singer, and had a voice like a
screech-owl when she scolded.

"The father was away most of the time, and when thathappened he had
been away out West for some weeks. There had been a married manhanging
about the mother for some time, and folks had talked some; butthey
weren't sure there was anything wrong, and he was a man very highup,
with money, so they kept pretty still for fear he would hear ofit and
make trouble for them, and of course nobody was sure, thoughfolks did
say afterward that the father of the child had ought to have beentold.

"But that was very easy to say; it wouldn't have been soeasy to find
anybody who would have been willing to tell him such a thing asthat,
especially when they weren't any too sure. He set his eyes by hiswife,
too. They said all he seemed to think of was to earn money to buy
things to deck her out in. And he about worshiped the child, too.They
said he was a real nice man. The men that are treated so badmostly are
real nice men. I've always noticed that.

"Well, one morning that man that there had been whispersabout was
missing. He had been gone quite a while, though, before theyreally
knew that he was missing, because he had gone away and told hiswife
that he had to go to New York on business and might be gone aweek, and
not to worry if he didn't get home, and not to worry if he didn'twrite,
because he should be thinking from day to day that he might takethe
next train home and there would be no use in writing. So the wife
waited, and she tried not to worry until it was two days over theweek,
then she run into a neighbour's and fainted dead away on thefloor; and
then they made inquiries and found out that he had skipped--withsome
money that didn't belong to him, too.

"Then folks began to ask where was that woman, and theyfound out by
comparing notes that nobody had seen her since the man went away;but
three or four women remembered that she had told them that shethought
of taking the child and going to Boston to visit her folks, sowhen they
hadn't seen her around, and the house shut, they jumped to the
conclusion that was where she was. They were the neighbours thatlived
right around her, but they didn't have much to do with her, andshe'd
gone out of her way to tell them about her Boston plan, and theydidn't
make much reply when she did.

"Well, there was this house shut up, and the man and womanmissing and
the child. Then all of a sudden one of the women that lived thenearest
remembered something. She remembered that she had waked up threenights
running, thinking she heard a child crying somewhere, and onceshe waked
up her husband, but he said it must be the Bisbees' little girl,and she
thought it must be. The child wasn't well and was always crying.It
used to have colic spells, especially at night. So she didn'tthink any
more about it until this came up, then all of a sudden she didthink of
it. She told what she had heard, and finally folks began to thinkthey
had better enter that house and see if there was anything wrong.

"Well, they did enter it, and they found that child dead,locked in one
of the rooms. (Mrs. Dennison and Mrs. Bird never used that room;it was
a back bedroom on the second floor.)

"Yes, they found that poor child there, starved to death,and frozen,
though they weren't sure she had frozen to death, for she was inbed
with clothes enough to keep her pretty warm when she was alive.But she
had been there a week, and she was nothing but skin and bone. Itlooked
as if the mother had locked her into the house when she wentaway, and
told her not to make any noise for fear the neighbours would hearher
and find out that she herself had gone.

"Mrs. Dennison said she couldn't really believe that thewoman had meant
to have her own child starved to death. Probably she thought thelittle
thing would raise somebody, or folks would try to get in thehouse and
find her. Well, whatever she thought, there the child was, dead.

"But that wasn't all. The father came home, right in themidst of it;
the child was just buried, and he was beside himself. And--hewent on
the track of his wife, and he found her, and he shot her dead; itwas in
all the papers at the time; then he disappeared. Nothing had beenseen
of him since. Mrs. Dennison said that she thought he had eithermade
way with himself or got out of the country, nobody knew, but theydid
know there was something wrong with the house.

"'I knew folks acted queer when they asked me how I liked itwhen we
first came here,' says Mrs. Dennison, 'but I never dreamed whytill we
saw the child that night.'

"I never heard anything like it in my life," said Mrs.Emerson, staring
at the other woman with awestruck eyes.

"I thought you'd say so," said Mrs. Meserve. "Youdon't wonder that I
ain't disposed to speak light when I hear there is anything queerabout
a house, do you?"

"No, I don't, after that," Mrs. Emerson said.

"But that ain't all," said Mrs. Meserve.

"Did you see it again?" Mrs. Emerson asked.

"Yes, I saw it a number of times before the last time. Itwas lucky I
wasn't nervous, or I never could have stayed there, much as Iliked the
place and much as I thought of those two women; they werebeautiful
women, and no mistake. I loved those women. I hope Mrs. Dennisonwill
come and see me sometime.

"Well, I stayed, and I never knew when I'd see that child. Igot so I
was very careful to bring everything of mine upstairs, and notleave any
little thing in my room that needed doing, for fear she wouldcome
lugging up my coat or hat or gloves or I'd find things done whenthere'd
been no live being in the room to do them. I can't tell you how I
dreaded seeing her; and worse than the seeing her was the hearingher
say, 'I can't find my mother.' It was enough to make your bloodrun
cold. I never heard a living child cry for its mother that wasanything
so pitiful as that dead one. It was enough to break your heart.

"She used to come and say that to Mrs. Bird oftener than toany one
else. Once I heard Mrs. Bird say she wondered if it was possiblethat
the poor little thing couldn't really find her mother in theother
world, she had been such a wicked woman.

"But Mrs. Dennison told her she didn't think she ought tospeak so nor
even think so, and Mrs. Bird said she shouldn't wonder if she wasright.
Mrs. Bird was always very easy to put in the wrong. She was agood
woman, and one that couldn't do things enough for other folks. It
seemed as if that was what she lived on. I don't think she wasever so
scared by that poor little ghost, as much as she pitied it, andshe was
'most heartbroken because she couldn't do anything for it, as shecould
have done for a live child.

"'It seems to me sometimes as if I should die if I can't getthat awful
little white robe off that child and get her in some clothes andfeed
her and stop her looking for her mother,' I heard her say once,and she
was in earnest. She cried when she said it. That wasn't longbefore
she died.

"Now I am coming to the strangest part of it all. Mrs. Birddied very
sudden. One morning--it was Saturday, and there wasn't any school--I
went downstairs to breakfast, and Mrs. Bird wasn't there; therewas
nobody but Mrs. Dennison. She was pouring out the coffee when Icame
in. 'Why, where's Mrs. Bird?' says I.

"'Abby ain't feeling very well this morning,' says she;'there isn't
much the matter, I guess, but she didn't sleep very well, and herhead
aches, and she's sort of chilly, and I told her I thought she'dbetter
stay in bed till the house gets warm.' It was a very cold morning.

"'Maybe she's got cold,' says I.

"'Yes, I guess she has,' says Mrs. Dennison. 'I guess she'sgot cold.
She'll be up before long. Abby ain't one to stay in bed a minutelonger
than she can help.'

"Well, we went on eating our breakfast, and all at once ashadow
flickered across one wall of the room and over the ceiling theway a
shadow will sometimes when somebody passes the window outside.Mrs.
Dennison and I both looked up, then out of the window; then Mrs.
Dennison she gives a scream.

"'Why, Abby's crazy!' says she. 'There she is out thisbitter cold
morning, and--and--' She didn't finish, but she meant the child.For we
were both looking out, and we saw, as plain as we ever sawanything in
our lives, Mrs. Abby Bird walking off over the white snow-pathwith that
child holding fast to her hand, nestling close to her as if shehad
found her own mother.

"'She's dead,' says Mrs. Dennison, clutching hold of me hard.'She's
dead; my sister is dead!'

"She was. We hurried upstairs as fast as we could go, andshe was dead
in her bed, and smiling as if she was dreaming, and one arm andhand was
stretched out as if something had hold of it; and it couldn't be
straightened even at the last--it lay out over her casket at the
funeral."

"Was the child ever seen again?" asked Mrs. Emerson ina shaking voice.

"No," replied Mrs. Meserve; "that child was neverseen again after she
went out of the yard with Mrs. Bird."