it. If the course of her life, and the temper
of her mind did not entitle her to peace
within, he did not know who could hope for
it. Somebody whispered that it would be
dreadful if a shocking mortal disease should
be seizing upon her: whereupon he, Mr.
Gurney, observed that he thought he should
have known if any such thing was to be
apprehended. As far as a fit of indigestion
went, he believed she suffered occasionally;
but she did not herself admit even that.
Dr. Robinson, who was present, said that
Mrs. Wharton's friends might be quite easy
about her health. She was not troubled with
indigestion, nor with any other complaint.
People could only go on to ask one another
what could be the matter. One or two
agreed that Mr. Gurney had made very
skilful answers, in which he was much
assisted by his curious customary gestures;
but that he had never said that he did not
know of any trouble being on Mrs. Wharton's
mind.

Soon after this, a like mysterious change
appeared to come over the daughter; but no
disasters could be discovered to have
happened. No disease, no money losses, no family
anxieties were heard of; and, by degrees,
both the ladies recovered nearly their former
cheerfulness and ease of manner,–––nearly, but
not altogether. They appeared somewhat
subdued, in countenance and bearing; and
they kept a solemn silence when some
subjects were talked of, which often turn up by
the Christmas fireside. It was years before
the matter was explained. My mother was
married by that time, and removed from her
smoky native town, to a much brighter city
in the south. She used to tell us, as we grew
up, the story of Mrs. Wharton, and what she
endured; and we could, if we had not been
ashamed, have gone on to say, as if we had
still been little children, "tell us again."
"When we were going into the north to visit
our grandparents, it was all very well to tell
us of coal-waggons that we should see running
without horses, or iron rails laid down in the
roads; and of the keelmen rowing their
keelboats in the river, and all at once kicking up
their right legs behind them, when they gave
the long pull; and of the glass-houses in the
town, with fire coming out of the top of the
high chimneys; and of the ever-burning
mounds near the mouths of the coal-pits,
where blue and yellow flames leaped about,
all night, through the whole year round. It
was all very well to think of seeing these
things; but we thought much more of walking
past old Mrs. Wharton house, and perhaps
inducing Mr. Gurney to tell us, in his way,
the story we had so often heard rny mother
tell in hers.

The story was this.

One Midsummer morning Mrs. Wharton
was so absent at breakfast, that her daughter
found all attempts at conversation to be in
vain. So she quietly filled the coffee-pot,
which her mother had forgotten to do, and in
the middle of the forenoon ordered dinner,
which she found her mother had also
forgotten. They had just such a breakfasting
three times more during the next fortnight.
Then, on Miss Wharton crossing the hall, she
met her mother in bonnet and shawl, about to
go out, so early as half-past nine. The
circumstance would not have been remarked,
but for the mother's confused and abashed
way of accounting for going out. She should
not be gone long. She had only a little call
to make, and so on. The call was on Mr.
Gurney. He had hardly done breakfast,
when he was told that Mrs. Wharton wished
to speak with him alone.

When he entered the study, Mrs. Wharton
seemed to be as unready with her words as
himself; and when he shook hands with her,
he observed that her hand was cold. She
said she was well, however. Then came a
pause during which the good pastor was
shifting from one foot to the other, on the
hearth-rug, with his hands behind him, though
there was nothing in the grate but shavings.
Mrs. Wharton, meantime, was putting her
veil up and down, and her gloves on and off.
At last, with a constrained and painful smile,
she said that she was really ashamed to say
what she came to say, but she must say it;
and she believed and hoped that Mr. Gurney
had known her long enough to be aware that
she was not subject to foolish fancies and
absurd fears.

"No one further from it," he dropped, and
now he fixed his eyes on her face. Her eyes
fell under his, when she went on.

"For some time past, I have suffered from
a most frightful visitation in the night."

"Visitation! What sort of visitation?"

She turned visibly cold while she answered
"It was last Wednesday fortnight that I
awoke in the middle of the night–––that is
between two and three in the morning, when it
was getting quite light, and I saw–––"

She choked a little, and stopped.

"Well!" said Mr. Gurney, "What did
you see?"

"I saw at the bottom of the bed, a most
hideous–––a most detestable face–––gibbering,
and making mouths at me."

"A face!"

"Yes; I could see only the face (except,
indeed, a hand upon the bedpost), because it
peeped round the bedpost from behind the
curtain. The curtains are drawn down to the
foot of the bed."

She stole a look at Mr. Gurney. He was
rolling his head; and there was a working
about his mouth before he asked–––

"What time did you sup that night?"

"Now," she replied, "you are not going to
say, I hope, that it was nightmare. Most
people would; but I hoped that you knew me
better than to suppose that I eat such suppers
as would occasion nightmare, or that I should
not know nightmare from reality."