Luella Miller

Close to the village street stood the one-story house in which Luella
Miller, who had an evil name in the village, had dwelt. She had been
dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, in spite of the
clearer light which comes on a vantage-point from a long-past danger,
half believed in the tale which they had heard from their childhood. In
their hearts, although they scarcely would have owned it, was a survival
of the wild horror and frenzied fear of their ancestors who had dwelt in
the same age with Luella Miller. Young people even would stare with a
shudder at the old house as they passed, and children never played
around it as was their wont around an untenanted building. Not a window
in the old Miller house was broken: the panes reflected the morning
sunlight in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging
front door was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella
Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had no tenant except
one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and the far-off
shelter of the open sky. This old woman, who had survived her kindred
and friends, lived in the house one week, then one morning no smoke came
out of the chimney, and a body of neighbours, a score strong, entered
and found her dead in her bed. There were dark whispers as to the cause
of her death, and there were those who testified to an expression of
fear so exalted that it showed forth the state of the departing soul
upon the dead face. The old woman had been hale and hearty when she
entered the house, and in seven days she was dead; it seemed that she
had fallen a victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the
pulpit with covert severity against the sin of superstition; still the
belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen the
almshouse rather than that dwelling. No vagrant, if he heard the tale,
would seek shelter beneath that old roof, unhallowed by nearly half a
century of superstitious fear.

There was only one person in the village who had actually known Luella
Miller. That person was a woman well over eighty, but a marvel of
vitality and unextinct youth. Straight as an arrow, with the spring of
one recently let loose from the bow of life, she moved about the
streets, and she always went to church, rain or shine. She had never
married, and had lived alone for years in a house across the road from
Luella Miller's.

This woman had none of the garrulousness of age, but never in all her
life had she ever held her tongue for any will save her own, and she
never spared the truth when she essayed to present it. She it was who
bore testimony to the life, evil, though possibly wittingly or
designedly so, of Luella Miller, and to her personal appearance. When
this old woman spoke--and she had the gift of description, although her
thoughts were clothed in the rude vernacular of her native village--one
could seem to see Luella Miller as she had really looked. According to
this woman, Lydia Anderson by name, Luella Miller had been a beauty of a
type rather unusual in New England. She had been a slight, pliant sort
of creature, as ready with a strong yielding to fate and as unbreakable
as a willow. She had glimmering lengths of straight, fair hair, which
she wore softly looped round a long, lovely face. She had blue eyes full
of soft pleading, little slender, clinging hands, and a wonderful grace
of motion and attitude.

"Luella Miller used to sit in a way nobody else could if they sat up and
studied a week of Sundays," said Lydia Anderson, "and it was a sight to
see her walk. If one of them willows over there on the edge of the
brook could start up and get its roots free of the ground, and move off,
it would go just the way Luella Miller used to. She had a green shot
silk she used to wear, too, and a hat with green ribbon streamers, and a
lace veil blowing across her face and out sideways, and a green ribbon
flyin' from her waist. That was what she came out bride in when she
married Erastus Miller. Her name before she was married was Hill.
There was always a sight of "l's" in her name, married or single.
Erastus Miller was good lookin', too, better lookin' than Luella.
Sometimes I used to think that Luella wa'n't so handsome after all.
Erastus just about worshiped her. I used to know him pretty well. He
lived next door to me, and we went to school together. Folks used to
say he was waitin' on me, but he wa'n't. I never thought he was except
once or twice when he said things that some girls might have suspected
meant somethin'. That was before Luella came here to teach the district
school. It was funny how she came to get it, for folks said she hadn't
any education, and that one of the big girls, Lottie Henderson, used to
do all the teachin' for her, while she sat back and did embroidery work
on a cambric pocket-handkerchief. Lottie Henderson was a real smart
girl, a splendid scholar, and she just set her eyes by Luella, as all
the girls did. Lottie would have made a real smart woman, but she died
when Luella had been here about a year--just faded away and died: nobody
knew what aided her. She dragged herself to that schoolhouse and helped
Luella teach till the very last minute. The committee all knew how
Luella didn't do much of the work herself, but they winked at it. It
wa'n't long after Lottie died that Erastus married her. I always
thought he hurried it up because she wa'n't fit to teach. One of the
big boys used to help her after Lottie died, but he hadn't much
government, and the school didn't do very well, and Luella might have
had to give it up, for the committee couldn't have shut their eyes to
things much longer. The boy that helped her was a real honest, innocent
sort of fellow, and he was a good scholar, too. Folks said he
overstudied, and that was the reason he was took crazy the year after
Luella married, but I don't know. And I don't know what made Erastus
Miller go into consumption of the blood the year after he was married:
consumption wa'n't in his family. He just grew weaker and weaker, and
went almost bent double when he tried to wait on Luella, and he spoke
feeble, like an old man. He worked terrible hard till the last trying
to save up a little to leave Luella. I've seen him out in the worst
storms on a wood-sled--he used to cut and sell wood--and he was hunched
up on top lookin' more dead than alive. Once I couldn't stand it: I
went over and helped him pitch some wood on the cart--I was always
strong in my arms. I wouldn't stop for all he told me to, and I guess
he was glad enough for the help. That was only a week before he died.
He fell on the kitchen floor while he was gettin' breakfast. He always
got the breakfast and let Luella lay abed. He did all the sweepin' and
the washin' and the ironin' and most of the cookin'. He couldn't bear
to have Luella lift her finger, and she let him do for her. She lived
like a queen for all the work she did. She didn't even do her sewin'.
She said it made her shoulder ache to sew, and poor Erastus's sister
Lily used to do all her sewin'. She wa'n't able to, either; she was
never strong in her back, but she did it beautifully. She had to, to
suit Luella, she was so dreadful particular. I never saw anythin' like
the fagottin' and hemstitchin' that Lily Miller did for Luella. She
made all Luella's weddin' outfit, and that green silk dress, after Maria
Babbit cut it. Maria she cut it for nothin', and she did a lot more
cuttin' and fittin' for nothin' for Luella, too. Lily Miller went to
live with Luella after Erastus died. She gave up her home, though she
was real attached to it and wa'n't a mite afraid to stay alone. She
rented it and she went to live with Luella right away after the
funeral."

Then this old woman, Lydia Anderson, who remembered Luella Miller, would
go on to relate the story of Lily Miller. It seemed that on the removal
of Lily Miller to the house of her dead brother, to live with his widow,
the village people first began to talk. This Lily Miller had been
hardly past her first youth, and a most robust and blooming woman,
rosy-cheeked, with curls of strong, black hair overshadowing round,
candid temples and bright dark eyes. It was not six months after she
had taken up her residence with her sister-in-law that her rosy colour
faded and her pretty curves became wan hollows. White shadows began to
show in the black rings of her hair, and the light died out of her eyes,
her features sharpened, and there were pathetic lines at her mouth,
which yet wore always an expression of utter sweetness and even
happiness. She was devoted to her sister; there was no doubt that she
loved her with her whole heart, and was perfectly content in her
service. It was her sole anxiety lest she should die and leave her
alone.

"The way Lily Miller used to talk about Luella was enough to make you
mad and enough to make you cry," said Lydia Anderson. "I've been in
there sometimes toward the last when she was too feeble to cook and
carried her some blanc-mange or custard--somethin' I thought she might
relish, and she'd thank me, and when I asked her how she was, say she
felt better than she did yesterday, and asked me if I didn't think she
looked better, dreadful pitiful, and say poor Luella had an awful time
takin' care of her and doin' the work--she wa'n't strong enough to do
anythin'--when all the time Luella wa'n't liftin' her finger and poor
Lily didn't get any care except what the neighbours gave her, and Luella
eat up everythin' that was carried in for Lily. I had it real straight
that she did. Luella used to just sit and cry and do nothin'. She did
act real fond of Lily, and she pined away considerable, too. There was
those that thought she'd go into a decline herself. But after Lily
died, her Aunt Abby Mixter came, and then Luella picked up and grew as
fat and rosy as ever. But poor Aunt Abby begun to droop just the way
Lily had, and I guess somebody wrote to her married daughter, Mrs. Sam
Abbot, who lived in Barre, for she wrote her mother that she must leave
right away and come and make her a visit, but Aunt Abby wouldn't go. I
can see her now. She was a real good-lookin' woman, tall and large,
with a big, square face and a high forehead that looked of itself kind
of benevolent and good. She just tended out on Luella as if she had
been a baby, and when her married daughter sent for her she wouldn't
stir one inch. She'd always thought a lot of her daughter, too, but she
said Luella needed her and her married daughter didn't. Her daughter
kept writin' and writin', but it didn't do any good. Finally she came,
and when she saw how bad her mother looked, she broke down and cried and
all but went on her knees to have her come away. She spoke her mind out
to Luella, too. She told her that she'd killed her husband and
everybody that had anythin' to do with her, and she'd thank her to leave
her mother alone. Luella went into hysterics, and Aunt Abby was so
frightened that she called me after her daughter went. Mrs. Sam Abbot
she went away fairly cryin' out loud in the buggy, the neighbours heard
her, and well she might, for she never saw her mother again alive. I
went in that night when Aunt Abby called for me, standin' in the door
with her little green-checked shawl over her head. I can see her now.
'Do come over here, Miss Anderson,' she sung out, kind of gasping for
breath. I didn't stop for anythin'. I put over as fast as I could, and
when I got there, there was Luella laughin' and cryin' all together, and
Aunt Abby trying to hush her, and all the time she herself was white as
a sheet and shakin' so she could hardly stand. 'For the land sakes,
Mrs. Mixter,' says I, 'you look worse than she does. You ain't fit to
be up out of your bed.'

"'Oh, there ain't anythin' the matter with me,' says she. Then she went
on talkin' to Luella. 'There, there, don't, don't, poor little lamb,'
says she. 'Aunt Abby is here. She ain't goin' away and leave you.
Don't, poor little lamb.'

"'Do leave her with me, Mrs. Mixter, and you get back to bed,' says I,
for Aunt Abby had been layin' down considerable lately, though somehow
she contrived to do the work.

"'I'm well enough,' says she. 'Don't you think she had better have the
doctor, Miss Anderson?'

"'The doctor,' says I, 'I think YOU had better have the doctor. I think
you need him much worse than some folks I could mention.' And I looked
right straight at Luella Miller laughin' and cryin' and goin' on as if
she was the centre of all creation. All the time she was actin'
so--seemed as if she was too sick to sense anythin'--she was keepin' a
sharp lookout as to how we took it out of the corner of one eye. I see
her. You could never cheat me about Luella Miller. Finally I got real
mad and I run home and I got a bottle of valerian I had, and I poured
some boilin' hot water on a handful of catnip, and I mixed up that
catnip tea with most half a wineglass of valerian, and I went with it
over to Luella's. I marched right up to Luella, a-holdin' out of that
cup, all smokin'. 'Now,' says I, 'Luella Miller, 'YOU SWALLER THIS!'

"'What is--what is it, oh, what is it?' she sort of screeches out. Then
she goes off a-laughin' enough to kill.

"'Poor lamb, poor little lamb,' says Aunt Abby, standin' over her, all
kind of tottery, and tryin' to bathe her head with camphor.

"'YOU SWALLER THIS RIGHT DOWN,' says I. And I didn't waste any
ceremony. I just took hold of Luella Miller's chin and I tipped her
head back, and I caught her mouth open with laughin', and I clapped that
cup to her lips, and I fairly hollered at her: 'Swaller, swaller,
swaller!' and she gulped it right down. She had to, and I guess it did
her good. Anyhow, she stopped cryin' and laughin' and let me put her to
bed, and she went to sleep like a baby inside of half an hour. That was
more than poor Aunt Abby did. She lay awake all that night and I stayed
with her, though she tried not to have me; said she wa'n't sick enough
for watchers. But I stayed, and I made some good cornmeal gruel and I
fed her a teaspoon every little while all night long. It seemed to me
as if she was jest dyin' from bein' all wore out. In the mornin' as
soon as it was light I run over to the Bisbees and sent Johnny Bisbee
for the doctor. I told him to tell the doctor to hurry, and he come
pretty quick. Poor Aunt Abby didn't seem to know much of anythin' when
he got there. You couldn't hardly tell she breathed, she was so used
up. When the doctor had gone, Luella came into the room lookin' like a
baby in her ruffled nightgown. I can see her now. Her eyes were as
blue and her face all pink and white like a blossom, and she looked at
Aunt Abby in the bed sort of innocent and surprised. 'Why,' says she,
'Aunt Abby ain't got up yet?'

"'No, she ain't,' says I, pretty short.

"'I thought I didn't smell the coffee,' says Luella.

"'Coffee,' says I. 'I guess if you have coffee this mornin' you'll make
it yourself.'

"'I never made the coffee in all my life,' says she, dreadful
astonished. 'Erastus always made the coffee as long as he lived, and
then Lily she made it, and then Aunt Abby made it. I don't believe I
CAN make the coffee, Miss Anderson.'

"'You can make it or go without, jest as you please,' says I.

"'Ain't Aunt Abby goin' to get up?' says she.

"'I guess she won't get up,' says I, 'sick as she is.' I was gettin'
madder and madder. There was somethin' about that little pink-and-white
thing standin' there and talkin' about coffee, when she had killed so
many better folks than she was, and had jest killed another, that made
me feel 'most as if I wished somebody would up and kill her before she
had a chance to do any more harm.

"'Is Aunt Abby sick?' says Luella, as if she was sort of aggrieved and
injured.

"'Yes,' says I, 'she's sick, and she's goin' to die, and then you'll be
left alone, and you'll have to do for yourself and wait on yourself, or
do without things.' I don't know but I was sort of hard, but it was the
truth, and if I was any harder than Luella Miller had been I'll give up.
I ain't never been sorry that I said it. Well, Luella, she up and had
hysterics again at that, and I jest let her have 'em. All I did was to
bundle her into the room on the other side of the entry where Aunt Abby
couldn't hear her, if she wa'n't past it--I don't know but she was--and
set her down hard in a chair and told her not to come back into the
other room, and she minded. She had her hysterics in there till she got
tired. When she found out that nobody was comin' to coddle her and do
for her she stopped. At least I suppose she did. I had all I could do
with poor Aunt Abby tryin' to keep the breath of life in her. The
doctor had told me that she was dreadful low, and give me some very
strong medicine to give to her in drops real often, and told me real
particular about the nourishment. Well, I did as he told me real
faithful till she wa'n't able to swaller any longer. Then I had her
daughter sent for. I had begun to realize that she wouldn't last any
time at all. I hadn't realized it before, though I spoke to Luella the
way I did. The doctor he came, and Mrs. Sam Abbot, but when she got
there it was too late; her mother was dead. Aunt Abby's daughter just
give one look at her mother layin' there, then she turned sort of sharp
and sudden and looked at me.

"'Where is she?' says she, and I knew she meant Luella.

"'She's out in the kitchen,' says I. 'She's too nervous to see folks
die. She's afraid it will make her sick.'

"The Doctor he speaks up then. He was a young man. Old Doctor Park had
died the year before, and this was a young fellow just out of college.
'Mrs. Miller is not strong,' says he, kind of severe, 'and she is quite
right in not agitating herself.'

"'You are another, young man; she's got her pretty claw on you,' thinks
I, but I didn't say anythin' to him. I just said over to Mrs. Sam Abbot
that Luella was in the kitchen, and Mrs. Sam Abbot she went out there,
and I went, too, and I never heard anythin' like the way she talked to
Luella Miller. I felt pretty hard to Luella myself, but this was more
than I ever would have dared to say. Luella she was too scared to go
into hysterics. She jest flopped. She seemed to jest shrink away to
nothin' in that kitchen chair, with Mrs. Sam Abbot standin' over her and
talkin' and tellin' her the truth. I guess the truth was most too much
for her and no mistake, because Luella presently actually did faint
away, and there wa'n't any sham about it, the way I always suspected
there was about them hysterics. She fainted dead away and we had to lay
her flat on the floor, and the Doctor he came runnin' out and he said
somethin' about a weak heart dreadful fierce to Mrs. Sam Abbot, but she
wa'n't a mite scared. She faced him jest as white as even Luella was
layin' there lookin' like death and the Doctor feelin' of her pulse.

"'Weak heart,' says she, 'weak heart; weak fiddlesticks! There ain't
nothin' weak about that woman. She's got strength enough to hang onto
other folks till she kills 'em. Weak? It was my poor mother that was
weak: this woman killed her as sure as if she had taken a knife to her.'

"But the Doctor he didn't pay much attention. He was bendin' over
Luella layin' there with her yellow hair all streamin' and her pretty
pink-and-white face all pale, and her blue eyes like stars gone out, and
he was holdin' onto her hand and smoothin' her forehead, and tellin' me
to get the brandy in Aunt Abby's room, and I was sure as I wanted to be
that Luella had got somebody else to hang onto, now Aunt Abby was gone,
and I thought of poor Erastus Miller, and I sort of pitied the poor
young Doctor, led away by a pretty face, and I made up my mind I'd see
what I could do.

"I waited till Aunt Abby had been dead and buried about a month, and the
Doctor was goin' to see Luella steady and folks were beginnin' to talk;
then one evenin', when I knew the Doctor had been called out of town and
wouldn't be round, I went over to Luella's. I found her all dressed up
in a blue muslin with white polka dots on it, and her hair curled jest
as pretty, and there wa'n't a young girl in the place could compare with
her. There was somethin' about Luella Miller seemed to draw the heart
right out of you, but she didn't draw it out of ME. She was settin'
rocking in the chair by her sittin'-room window, and Maria Brown had
gone home. Maria Brown had been in to help her, or rather to do the
work, for Luella wa'n't helped when she didn't do anythin'. Maria Brown
was real capable and she didn't have any ties; she wa'n't married, and
lived alone, so she'd offered. I couldn't see why she should do the
work any more than Luella; she wa'n't any too strong; but she seemed to
think she could and Luella seemed to think so, too, so she went over and
did all the work--washed, and ironed, and baked, while Luella sat and
rocked. Maria didn't live long afterward. She began to fade away just
the same fashion the others had. Well, she was warned, but she acted
real mad when folks said anythin': said Luella was a poor, abused woman,
too delicate to help herself, and they'd ought to be ashamed, and if she
died helpin' them that couldn't help themselves she would--and she did.

"'I s'pose Maria has gone home,' says I to Luella, when I had gone in
and sat down opposite her.

"'Yes, Maria went half an hour ago, after she had got supper and washed
the dishes,' says Luella, in her pretty way.

"'I suppose she has got a lot of work to do in her own house to- night,'
says I, kind of bitter, but that was all thrown away on Luella Miller.
It seemed to her right that other folks that wa'n't any better able than
she was herself should wait on her, and she couldn't get it through her
head that anybody should think it WA'N'T right.

"'Yes,' says Luella, real sweet and pretty, 'yes, she said she had to do
her washin' to-night. She has let it go for a fortnight along of comin'
over here.'

"'Why don't she stay home and do her washin' instead of comin' over here
and doin' YOUR work, when you are just as well able, and enough sight
more so, than she is to do it?' says I.

"Then Luella she looked at me like a baby who has a rattle shook at it.
She sort of laughed as innocent as you please. 'Oh, I can't do the work
myself, Miss Anderson,' says she. 'I never did. Maria HAS to do it.'

"Then I spoke out: 'Has to do it I' says I. 'Has to do it!' She don't
have to do it, either. Maria Brown has her own home and enough to live
on. She ain't beholden to you to come over here and slave for you and
kill herself.'

"Luella she jest set and stared at me for all the world like a doll-baby
that was so abused that it was comin' to life.

"'Yes,' says I, 'she's killin' herself. She's goin' to die just the way
Erastus did, and Lily, and your Aunt Abby. You're killin' her jest as
you did them. I don't know what there is about you, but you seem to
bring a curse,' says I. 'You kill everybody that is fool enough to care
anythin' about you and do for you.'

"She stared at me and she was pretty pale.

"'And Maria ain't the only one you're goin' to kill,' says I. 'You're
goin' to kill Doctor Malcom before you're done with him.'

"Then a red colour came flamin' all over her face. 'I ain't goin' to
kill him, either,' says she, and she begun to cry.

"'Yes, you BE!' says I. Then I spoke as I had never spoke before. You
see, I felt it on account of Erastus. I told her that she hadn't any
business to think of another man after she'd been married to one that
had died for her: that she was a dreadful woman; and she was, that's
true enough, but sometimes I have wondered lately if she knew it--if she
wa'n't like a baby with scissors in its hand cuttin' everybody without
knowin' what it was doin'.

"Luella she kept gettin' paler and paler, and she never took her eyes
off my face. There was somethin' awful about the way she looked at me
and never spoke one word. After awhile I quit talkin' and I went home.
I watched that night, but her lamp went out before nine o'clock, and
when Doctor Malcom came drivin' past and sort of slowed up he see there
wa'n't any light and he drove along. I saw her sort of shy out of
meetin' the next Sunday, too, so he shouldn't go home with her, and I
begun to think mebbe she did have some conscience after all. It was
only a week after that that Maria Brown died--sort of sudden at the
last, though everybody had seen it was comin'. Well, then there was a
good deal of feelin' and pretty dark whispers. Folks said the days of
witchcraft had come again, and they were pretty shy of Luella. She
acted sort of offish to the Doctor and he didn't go there, and there
wa'n't anybody to do anythin' for her. I don't know how she DID get
along. I wouldn't go in there and offer to help her--not because I was
afraid of dyin' like the rest, but I thought she was just as well able
to do her own work as I was to do it for her, and I thought it was about
time that she did it and stopped killin' other folks. But it wa'n't
very long before folks began to say that Luella herself was goin' into a
decline jest the way her husband, and Lily, and Aunt Abby and the others
had, and I saw myself that she looked pretty bad. I used to see her
goin' past from the store with a bundle as if she could hardly crawl,
but I remembered how Erastus used to wait and 'tend when he couldn't
hardly put one foot before the other, and I didn't go out to help her.

"But at last one afternoon I saw the Doctor come drivin' up like mad
with his medicine chest, and Mrs. Babbit came in after supper and said
that Luella was real sick.

"'I'd offer to go in and nurse her,' says she, 'but I've got my children
to consider, and mebbe it ain't true what they say, but it's queer how
many folks that have done for her have died.'

"I didn't say anythin', but I considered how she had been Erastus's wife
and how he had set his eyes by her, and I made up my mind to go in the
next mornin', unless she was better, and see what I could do; but the
next mornin' I see her at the window, and pretty soon she came steppin'
out as spry as you please, and a little while afterward Mrs. Babbit came
in and told me that the Doctor had got a girl from out of town, a Sarah
Jones, to come there, and she said she was pretty sure that the Doctor
was goin' to marry Luella.

"I saw him kiss her in the door that night myself, and I knew it was
true. The woman came that afternoon, and the way she flew around was a
caution. I don't believe Luella had swept since Maria died. She swept
and dusted, and washed and ironed; wet clothes and dusters and carpets
were flyin' over there all day, and every time Luella set her foot out
when the Doctor wa'n't there there was that Sarah Jones helpin' of her
up and down the steps, as if she hadn't learned to walk.

"Well, everybody knew that Luella and the Doctor were goin' to be
married, but it wa'n't long before they began to talk about his lookin'
so poorly, jest as they had about the others; and they talked about
Sarah Jones, too.

"Well, the Doctor did die, and he wanted to be married first, so as to
leave what little he had to Luella, but he died before the minister
could get there, and Sarah Jones died a week afterward.

"Well, that wound up everything for Luella Miller. Not another soul in
the whole town would lift a finger for her. There got to be a sort of
panic. Then she began to droop in good earnest. She used to have to go
to the store herself, for Mrs. Babbit was afraid to let Tommy go for
her, and I've seen her goin' past and stoppin' every two or three steps
to rest. Well, I stood it as long as I could, but one day I see her
comin' with her arms full and stoppin' to lean against the Babbit fence,
and I run out and took her bundles and carried them to her house. Then
I went home and never spoke one word to her though she called after me
dreadful kind of pitiful. Well, that night I was taken sick with a
chill, and I was sick as I wanted to be for two weeks. Mrs. Babbit had
seen me run out to help Luella and she came in and told me I was goin'
to die on account of it. I didn't know whether I was or not, but I
considered I had done right by Erastus's wife.

"That last two weeks Luella she had a dreadful hard time, I guess. She
was pretty sick, and as near as I could make out nobody dared go near
her. I don't know as she was really needin' anythin' very much, for
there was enough to eat in her house and it was warm weather, and she
made out to cook a little flour gruel every day, I know, but I guess she
had a hard time, she that had been so petted and done for all her life.

"When I got so I could go out, I went over there one morning. Mrs.
Babbit had just come in to say she hadn't seen any smoke and she didn't
know but it was somebody's duty to go in, but she couldn't help thinkin'
of her children, and I got right up, though I hadn't been out of the
house for two weeks, and I went in there, and Luella she was layin' on
the bed, and she was dyin'.

"She lasted all that day and into the night. But I sat there after the
new doctor had gone away. Nobody else dared to go there. It was about
midnight that I left her for a minute to run home and get some medicine
I had been takin', for I begun to feel rather bad.

"It was a full moon that night, and just as I started out of my door to
cross the street back to Luella's, I stopped short, for I saw
something."

Lydia Anderson at this juncture always said with a certain defiance that
she did not expect to be believed, and then proceeded in a hushed voice:

"I saw what I saw, and I know I saw it, and I will swear on my death bed
that I saw it. I saw Luella Miller and Erastus Miller, and Lily, and
Aunt Abby, and Maria, and the Doctor, and Sarah, all goin' out of her
door, and all but Luella shone white in the moonlight, and they were all
helpin' her along till she seemed to fairly fly in the midst of them.
Then it all disappeared. I stood a minute with my heart poundin', then
I went over there. I thought of goin' for Mrs. Babbit, but I thought
she'd be afraid. So I went alone, though I knew what had happened.
Luella was layin' real peaceful, dead on her bed."

This was the story that the old woman, Lydia Anderson, told, but the
sequel was told by the people who survived her, and this is the tale
which has become folklore in the village.

Lydia Anderson died when she was eighty-seven. She had continued
wonderfully hale and hearty for one of her years until about two weeks
before her death.

One bright moonlight evening she was sitting beside a window in her
parlour when she made a sudden exclamation, and was out of the house and
across the street before the neighbour who was taking care of her could
stop her. She followed as fast as possible and found Lydia Anderson
stretched on the ground before the door of Luella Miller's deserted
house, and she was quite dead.

The next night there was a red gleam of fire athwart the moonlight and
the old house of Luella Miller was burned to the ground. Nothing is now
left of it except a few old cellar stones and a lilac bush, and in
summer a helpless trail of morning glories among the weeds, which might
be considered emblematic of Luella herself.