"But, my dear Mrs. Wharton, what else can
I say?"

"Perhaps you had better listen further,
before you say anything."

He nodded and smiled, as much as to say
that was true.

"I have seen the same appearance on three
occasions since."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, on three several nights, about the
same hour. And, since the first appearance,
my supper has been merely a little bread arid
butter, with a glass of water. I chose to
exclude nightmare, as I would exclude
anything whatever that could possibly cause an
appearance so horrible."

"What sort of face is it?"

"Short and broad;–––silly, and yet sly; and
the features gibber and work, Oh!
fearfully!"

"Do you hear it come and go?"

"No. When I wake–––(and I never used
to wake in the night)–––it is there: and it
disappears–––to say the truth–––while my eyes
are covered; for I cannot meet its eyes. I
hear nothing. When I venture a glance,
sometimes it is still there; sometimes it is gone."

"Have you missed any property?"

"No: nor found any trace whatever. We
have lost nothing; and there is really not a
door or window that seems ever to have been
touched: not an opening where any one could
get in or out."

"And if there were, what could be the
object?–––What does your daughter say to it?"

"Oh! " said Mrs. Wharton, rising quickly,
"she does not, and indeed she must not know
a word of it. I ought to have said, at first,
that what I am telling you is entirely in
confidence. If I told my daughter, it must then
go no further. We could not keep our
servants a week, if it got out. And if I should
want to let my house, I could not find a
tenant. The value of the property would go
down to nothing; and, in justice to my
daughter, I must consider that; for it is to be
hers hereafter. And we could never have a
guest to stay with us. No one would sleep
in the house a single night. Indeed, you
must not . . . . ."

"Well, well: I will not mention it. But
I don't see . . . . ."

He paused; and Mrs. Wharton replied to
his thought.

"It is difficult to form conjectures,–––to say
anything, in such a case, which does not
appear too foolish to be uttered. But one
must have some thoughts; and perhaps–––if
one can talk of possibilities–––it is possible
that this appearance may be meant for me
alone; and therefore, if I can conceal it from
my daughter . . . . . till I am convinced
whether it is meant for me alone . . . . ."

"I would soon try that," observed Mr.
Gurney. Seeing Mrs. Wharton look wistfully
at him, he continued,

"My advice is that you have your daughter
sleep with you, after hearing your story. Try
whether she can see this face."

"You do not think she would?"

"I think she would not.–––My dear friend,
if I were a medical man, I could tell you facts
which you are little aware of,–––anecdotes of
the strange tricks that our nerves play with
us;–––of delusions so like reality . . . . ."

"Do you think I have not considered
that? " exclaimed the poor lady. "Mr.
Gurney, I did not think that you would try
to persuade me out of my senses, when I tell
you, that four times I have seen in daylight,
and when wide awake, and in perfect health,
what I have said."

Mr. Gurney was very gentle; but, as he
said, what could he suggest but indigestion,
or some such cause of nervous disturbance?
Yet his heart smote him when his old friend
laid her forehead against the mantel-piece,
and cried heartily.

He did all he could. He tried indefatigably,
though in vain, to persuade her to let
her daughter share the spectacle: and he
went, the same day, when Miss Wharton was
out for her walk, and the servants were at
dinner, to examine the house. He made no
discovery. The gratings of the under-ground
cellars were perfect. The attics had no
trapdoors; and the house had no parapet. The
chimneys were too high and narrow for any
one to get in at the top. No window or door
was ever found unfastened in the morning.
Mrs. Wharton did not think she could engage
for courage enough to get out of bed, or to
look beyond the curtains. Nor could she
promise not to draw her curtains. The face
had never appeared within them; and they
seemed a sort of protection where there was
no other.

Without having made any promises, she
went so far as to start up in bed, the next
time she saw the face. The eyes winked
horribly at her; the head nodded–––and was
gone. The beating of her heart prevented
her hearing anything that time; but once or
twice during the autumn she fancied she
heard a light and swift footstep in the passage.
She always left her room-door open, for the
sake of the same sort of feeling of security
that most people crave when they shut and
bolt theirs. If this was a ghost, bolts would
not keep it out; and she could fly the more
easily through the open door if her terror
should become too great to be endured alone.
For the first time, she now burned a night-light
in her chamber, as the nights lengthened,
and not a dim, flickering rush candle, but a
steady wax-light. She knew that her daughter
wondered at the strange extravagance;
but she could not bear darkness, or a very
feeble light, when the thing might be behind
the curtain.

Throughout October the visits were almost
nightly. In the first week in November they
suddenly ceased; and so many weeks passed
away without a return, that Mrs. Wharton