to lose sight of her again in that large and
rambling house. And so it happened, that
one afternoon, not long before Christmas day,
we were playing together on the billiard-
table in the great hall (not that we knew the
right way of playing, but she liked to roll
the smooth ivory balls with her pretty hands,
and I liked to do whatever she did); and,
by-and-bye, without our noticing it, it grew
dusk indoors, though it was still light in the
open air, and I was thinking of taking her
back into the nursery, when, all of a sudden,
she cried out:

"Look, Hester! look! there is my poor
little girl out in the snow!"

I turned towards the long narrow windows,
and there, sure enough, I saw a little girl, less
than my Miss Rosamond— dressed all unfit to
be out-of-doors such a bitter night— crying,
and beating against the window-panes, as if
she wanted to be let in. She seemed to sob
and wail, till Miss Rosamond could bear it
no longer, and was flying to the door to
open it, when, all of a sudden, and close
upon us, the great organ pealed out so loud
and thundering, it fairly made me tremble;
and all the more, when I remembered me
that, even in the stillness of that dead-cold
weather, I had heard no sound of little battering
hands upon the window-glass, although
the Phantom Child had seemed to put forth
all its force; and, although I had seen it wail
and cry, no faintest touch of sound had fallen
upon my ears. Whether I remembered all
this at the very moment, I do not know; the
great organ sound had so stunned me into
terror; but this I know, I caught up Miss
Rosamond before she got the hall-door opened,
and clutched her, and carried her away, kicking
and screaming, into the large bright
kitchen, where Dorothy and Agnes were busy
with their mince-pies.

"What is the matter with my sweet one?"
cried Dorothy, as I bore in Miss Rosamond,
who was sobbing as if her heart would break.

"She won't let me open the door for my
little girl to come in; and she'll die if she is
out on the Fells all night. Cruel, naughty
Hester," she said, slapping me; but she
might have struck harder, for I had seen a
look of ghastly terror on Dorothy's face,
which made my very blood run cold.

"Shut the back kitchen door fast, and
bolt it well," said she to Agnes. She said
no more; she gave me raisins and almonds
to quiet Miss Rosamond: but she sobbed
about the little girl in the snow, and would
not touch any of the good things. I was
thankful when she cried herself to sleep in
bed. Then I stole down to the kitchen,
and told Dorothy I had made up my mind.
I would carry my darling back to my father's
house in Applethwaite; where, if we lived
humbly , we lived at peace. I said I had
been frightened enough with the old lord's
organ-playing; but now, that I had seen for
myself this little moaning child, all decked
out as no child in the neighbourhood could
be, beating and battering to get in, yet always
without any sound or noise— with the dark
wound on its right shoulder; and that Miss
Rosamond had known it again for the phantom
that had nearly lured her to her death (which
Dorothy knew was true); I would stand it
no longer.

I saw Dorothy change colour once or twice.
When I had done, she told me she did not
think I could take Miss Rosamond with
me, for that she was my lord's ward, and I
had no right over her; and she asked me,
would I leave the child that I was so fond of,
just for sounds and sights that could do me
no harm; and that they had all had to get used
to in their turns? I was all in a hot,
trembling passion; and I said it was very
well for her to talk, that knew what these
sights and noises betokened, and that had,
perhaps, had something to do with the
Spectre-child while it was alive. And I
taunted her so, that she told me all she knew,
at last; and then I wished I had never been
told, for it only made me more afraid than
ever.

She said she had heard the tale from old
neighbours, that were alive when she was
first married; when folks used to come to the
hall sometimes before it had got such a bad
name on the country side: it might not be
true, or it might, what she had been told.

The old lord was Miss Furnivall's father—
Miss Grace, as Dorothy called her, for Miss
Maude was the elder, and Miss Furnivall by
rights. The old lord was eaten up with pride.
Such a proud man was never seen or heard
of; and his daughters were like him. No
one was good enough to wed them, although
they had choice enough; for they were the
great beauties of their day, as I had seen by
their portraits, where they hung in the state
drawing-room. But, as the old saying is,
"Pride will have a fall;" and these two
haughty beauties fell in love with the same
man, and he no better than a foreign musician,
whom their father had down from
London to play music with him at the Manor
House. For, above all things, next to his
pride, the old lord loved music. He could
play on nearly every instrument that ever was
heard of; and it was a strange thing it did
not soften him; but he was a fierce dour old
man, and had broken his poor wife's heart
with his cruelty, they said. He was mad
after music, and would pay any money for
it. So he got this foreigner to come; who
made such beautiful music, that they said
the very birds on the trees stopped their
singing to listen. And, by degrees, this
foreign gentleman got such a hold over the
old lord, that nothing would serve him but
that he must come every year; and it was he
that had the great organ brought from
Holland and built up in the hall, where it stood
now. He taught the old lord to play on it;
but many and many a time, when Lord