All at once, I heard a long, weary sigh, so near me that it could not have proceeded from the sleepers.  A weak moan, expressive of utter wretchedness, followed, and then came the words, in a woman’s voice,—­came I know not whence, for they seemed to be uttered close beside me, and yet far, far away,—­“How great is my trouble!  How long shall I suffer?  I was married, in the sight of God, to Eber Nicholson.  Have mercy, O Lord, and give him to me, or release me from him!”

These were the words, not spoken, but rather moaned forth in a slow, monotonous wail of utter helplessness and broken-heartedness.  I have heard human grief expressed in many forms, but I never heard or imagined anything so desolate, so surcharged with the despair of an eternal woe.  It was, indeed, too hopeless for sympathy.  It was the utterance of a sorrow which removed its possessor into some dark, lonely world girdled with iron walls, against which every throb of a helping or consoling heart would beat in vain for admittance.  So far from being moved or softened, the words left upon me an impression of stolid apathy.  When they had ceased, I heard another sigh,—­and some time afterwards, far-off, retreating forlornly through the eastern darkness, the wailing repetition,—­“I was married, in the sight of God, to Eber Nicholson.  Have mercy, O Lord!”

This was the last of those midnight marvels.  Nothing further disturbed the night except the steady sound of the wind.  The more I thought of what I had heard, the more I was convinced that the phenomena were connected, in some way, with the history of my host.  I had heard his wife call him “Ebe,” and did not doubt that he was the Eber Nicholson who, for some mysterious crime, was haunted by the reproachful ghost.  Could murder, or worse than murder, lurk behind these visitations?  It was useless to conjecture; yet, before giving myself up to sleep, I determined to know everything that could be known, before leaving the shanty.

My rest was disturbed:  my hip-bones pressed unpleasantly on the hard bench; and every now and then I awoke with a start, hearing the same despairing voice in my dreams.  The place was always quiet, nevertheless,—­the disturbances having ceased, as nearly as I could judge, about one o’clock in the morning.  Finally, from sheer weariness, I fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until daylight.  The sound of pans and kettles aroused me.  The woman, in her lank blue gown, was bending over the fire; the man and boy had already gone out.  As I rose, rubbing my eyes and shaking myself, to find out exactly where and who I was, the woman straightened herself and looked at me with a keen, questioning gaze, but said nothing.

“I must have been very sound asleep,” said I.

“There’s no sound sleepin’ here.  Don’t tell me that.”

“Well,” I answered, “your shanty is rather noisy; but, as I’m neither scared nor hurt, there’s no harm done.  But have you never found out what occasions the noise?”