of much thought.  As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms and dark corridors.  The deep silence of night was broken by strange noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held accountable.  Old Martha, seated in her distant kitchen, heard strange sounds upon the stairs, and once, upon hurrying to them, fancied that she saw a dark figure squatting upon the landing, though a subsequent search with candle and spectacles failed to discover anything.  Eunice was disturbed by several vague incidents, and, as she suffered from a complaint of the heart, rendered very ill by them.  Even Tabitha admitted a strangeness about the house, but, confident in her piety and virtue, took no heed of it, her mind being fully employed in another direction.

Since the death of her sister all restraint upon her was removed, and she yielded herself up entirely to the stern and hard rules enforced by avarice upon its devotees.  Her housekeeping expenses were kept rigidly separate from those of Eunice and her food limited to the coarsest dishes, while in the matter of clothes, the old servant was by far the better dressed.  Seated alone in her bedroom this uncouth, hard-featured creature revelled in her possessions, grudging even the expense of the candle-end which enabled her to behold them.  So completely did this passion change her that both Eunice and Martha became afraid of her, and lay awake in their beds night after night trembling at the chinking of the coins at her unholy vigils.

One day Eunice ventured to remonstrate.  “Why don’t you bank your money, Tabitha?” she said; “it is surely not safe to keep such large sums in such a lonely house.”

“Large sums!” repeated the exasperated Tabitha, “large sums! what nonsense is this?  You know well that I have barely sufficient to keep me.”

“It’s a great temptation to housebreakers,” said her sister, not pressing the point.  “I made sure last night that I heard somebody in the house.”

“Did you?” said Tabitha, grasping her arm, a horrible look on her face.  “So did I. I thought they went to Ursula’s room, and I got out of bed and went on the stairs to listen.”

“Well?” said Eunice faintly, fascinated by the look on her sister’s face.

“There was something there,” said Tabitha slowly.  “I’ll swear it, for I stood on the landing by her door and listened; something scuffling on the floor round and round the room.  At first I thought it was the cat, but when I went up there this morning the door was still locked, and the cat was in the kitchen.”

“Oh, let us leave this dreadful house,” moaned Eunice.

“What!” said her sister grimly; “afraid of poor Ursula?  Why should you be?  Your own sister who nursed you when you were a babe, and who perhaps even now comes and watches over your slumbers.”