them, they said they hoped to see her
again. Her uncle and aunt were in a sad
way when they heard what had chanced.
She didn't make no concealments about it
at first, and I do think she was druv to it
after, along o' their bein' so very strict and
hard upon her at home. She did lead a
dreary life of it. She was never trusted out
alone after that. She was not strong in her
health, and she had a pony to ride, which
was a'most her only pleasure; but she
never went out without the old man-
servant behind, to see she come to no
harm, unless Mr. Perigal was with her
himself. One day who should she fall in
with, but a pic-nic party from Manorbere,
and the ladies she had met the day they
lost themselves come up so free and pleasant ,
and asked her to join their lunch. She
come round old Richard with her pretty
coaxing ways to keep it secret from her
guardians; and so by little and little she
got to make meetings with her new friends.
Bad friends they was to her, but I don't
think they meant her any harm. They
liked her, and thought to amuse her: only
led her into deceit and false ways.
One of the young gentlemen was taken
with her pretty face, and got a sweethearting
of her; and one day when they were
dancing on the grass, he wanted her to be
his partner in one of their new-fangled
dances. Of course she knowed nothin' of
it, though she was used to dances in her
own home, and could foot it in a country
dance with the best of 'em. Bless her, she
was as lissom as a fairy! So, then, they
said they must teach her; and she took to
it like natur', and said there never was
anything so delightful. Then they told
her they practised it every night at the
Lodge, and she must come there and make
one of them. For a little time she stood out
that she musn't, and she durstn't, and what
would come of it if uncle and aunt found
out! ' Well, and if they did, they can't
send you to Bogey,' said Clendon, who
never feared God nor devil. And they all
laughed at her, and persuaded of her, so at
last it was settled how it should be. After
she was gone to her room at night—there
was prayers at the Grange at half-past nine,
and when they were over the house was
shut up, and all the lights was put out, and
everybody went to bed—she was to slip out
by her window, and her young man was to
meet her, and take her to Manorbere and
in by the old part of the house, and through
the door at the top of the staircase (what's
barred up this many a year now), and so
down to the dancing- room; and when
their jinks was over, some on 'em took
her home again, all on the sly. I don't
know how long this went on, but not many
times, I should think, or she'd likely got
caught. It would have been best for her
if she had, poor thing! But one night, as
she was whirling round and round with
her lover, and his arm round her, he felt
her lean heavy all of a sudden, and then
slide away to the ground. They all stopped
in a fright, and lifted her up, and carried
her to the sofa; but no burnt feathers nor
vinegar, nor anything else, try what they
might, would bring her to. They rode off
like mad for a doctor, and he come galloping
back with 'em; but he could do
nothing. She was dead!"

"Good heavens! how shocking!" cried
Effie.

"Ah! you may say so, miss; cut off like
that in the midst of her sins!"

"There's no sin in dancing," said Lucy.

"But there is in disobedience, miss, and
deceit! The doctor he said it was disease
of the heart; but Mr. Perigal, he never
would be persuaded but what it was a
judgment on her for seeking after carnal
pleasures; and he cursed the Clendons and
all their lot, as the devil's imps misleading
the unwary. They was more strict and
serious than ever, after that, at the Grange,
and the house was like a tomb for gloominess;
for they both loved their niece after
their fashion, and they looked on her as a
lost soul. Though, for my part, I can't
help thinking the Almighty might, mayhap,
have mercy on a poor misguided child."

"You are a better Christian than they
were," said Lucy.

"But what was the end of the Clendons?"
asked Effie.

"Well! Even they seemed sobered like
by that shocking night's work. The party
broke up soon after, and all went away for
good. The family never come back, and
I've heerd as how the last on 'em died in
forrin parts. The creditors come and took
possession, and the property was cut up
and sold off. Several different families has
had the house, but none for long. They
do say that of a night, when all is quiet,
that old door is heerd to open softly, creak,
creak, and then footsteps go stealing down-
stairs; and then, by-and-bye, they come
creeping up again, and the door creaks
again, and sounds as if it was to shut to.
But nothing is ever seen." . . . .

Effie listened to this recital with a sort
of fascinated terror, and repeated it with