"Well, to be sure!" said I, when I had
gazed my fill. "Flesh is grass, they do say;
but who would have thought that Miss
Furnivall had been such an out-and-out beauty,
to see her now?"

"Yes," said Dorothy. "Folks change
sadly. But if what my master's father used
to say was true, Miss Furnivall, the elder
sister, was handsomer than Miss Grace. Her
picture is here somewhere; but, if I show it
you, you must never let on, even to James,
that you have seen it. Can the little lady
hold her tongue, think you?" asked she.

I was not so sure, for she was such a little
sweet, bold, open-spoken child, so I set her
to hide herself; and then I helped Dorothy
to turn a great picture, that leaned with
its face towards the wall, and was not
hung up as the others were. To be sure, it
beat Miss Grace for beauty; and, I think, for
scornful pride, too, though in that matter it
might be hard to choose. I could have
looked at it an hour, but Dorothy seemed
half frightened of having shown it to me, and
hurried it back again, and bade me run
and find Miss Rosamond, for that there were
some ugly places about the house, where she
should like ill for the child to go. I was a
brave, high-spirited girl, and thought little
of what the old woman said, for I liked hide-
and-seek as well as any child in the parish;
so off I ran to find my little one.

As winter drew on, and the days grew
shorter, I was sometimes almost certain that
I heard a noise as if some one was playing
on the great organ in the hall. I did not
hear it every evening; but, certainly, I did
very often; usually when I was sitting with
Miss Rosamond, after I had put her to bed,
and keeping quite still and silent in the
bedroom. Then I used to hear it booming and
swelling away in the distance. The first
night, when I went down to my supper, I
asked Dorothy who had been playing music,
and James said very shortly that I was a
gowk to take the wind soughing among the
trees for music; but I saw Dorothy look at
him very fearfully, and Bessy, the kitchen-
maid, said something beneath her breath, and
went quite white. I saw they did not like
my question, so I held my peace till I was
with Dorothy alone, when I knew I could
get a good deal out of her. So, the next day, I
watched my time, and I coaxed and asked
her who it was that played the organ; for I
knew that it was the organ and not the wind
well enough, for all I had kept silence before
James. But Dorothy had had her lesson, I'll
warrant, and never a word could I get from
her. So then I tried Bessy, though I had
always held my head rather above her, as I
was evened to James and Dorothy, and she
was little better than their servant. So she
said I must never, never tell; and, if I ever
told, I was never to say she had told me; but
it was a very strange noise, and she had
heard it many a time, but most of all on
winter nights, and before storms; and folks
did say, it was the old lord playing on the
great organ in the hall, just as he used to do
when he was alive; but who the old lord was,
or why he played, and why he played on
stormy winter evenings in particular, she
either could not or would not tell me. Well!
I told you I had a brave heart; and I thought
it was rather pleasant to have that grand
music rolling about the house, let who would
be the player; for now it rose above the
great gusts of wind, and wailed and triumphed
just like a living creature, and then it fell to
a softness most complete; only it was always
music and tunes, so it was nonsense to call it
the wind. I thought, at first, it might be
Miss Furnivall who played, unknown to
Bessy; but, one day when I was in the hall
by myself, I opened the organ and peeped all
about it, and around it, as I had done to the
organ in Crosthwaite Church once before,
and I saw it was all broken and destroyed
inside, though it looked so brave and fine;
and then, though it was noon-day, my flesh
began to creep a little, and I shut it up, and
ran away pretty quickly to my own bright
nursery; and I did not like hearing the
music for some time after that, any more
than James and Dorothy did. All this time
Miss Rosamond was making herself more
and more beloved. The old ladies liked her
to dine with them at their early dinner;
James stood behind Miss Furnivall's chair,
and I behind Miss Rosamond's, all in state;
and, after dinner, she would play about in a
corner of the great drawing-room, as still as
any mouse, while Miss Furnivall slept, and I
had my dinner in the kitchen. But she was
glad enough to come to me in the nursery
afterwards; for, as she said, Miss Furnivall
was so sad, and Mrs. Stark so dull; but she
and I were merry enough; and, by-and-by,
I got not to care for that weird rolling music,
which did one no harm, if we did not know
where it came from.

That winter was very cold. In the middle
of October the frosts began, and lasted many,
many weeks. I remember, one day at dinner,
Miss Furnivall lifted up her sad, heavy eyes,
and said to Mrs. Stark, "I am afraid we shall
have a terrible winter," in a strange kind of
meaning way. But Mrs. Stark pretended
not to hear, and talked very loud of
something else. My little lady and I did not care
for the frost;— not we! As long as it was
dry we climbed up the steep brows, behind
the house, and went up on the Fells, which
were bleak and bare enough, and there we
ran races in the fresh, sharp air; and once
we came down by a new path that took us
past the two old gnarled holly-trees, which
grew about half-way down by the east side of
the house. But the days grew shorter and
shorter; and the old lord, if it was he, played
away more and more stormily and sadly on
the great organ. One Sunday afternoon,— it
must have been towards the end of November