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.”

“Oh!” said Eunice, pressing her hand to her side, “if I saw her I should die.  I should think that she had come for me as she said she would.  O God! have mercy on me, I am dying.”

She reeled as she spoke, and before Tabitha could save her, sank senseless to the floor.

“Get some water,” cried Tabitha, as old Martha came hurrying up the stairs, “Eunice has fainted.”

The old woman, with a timid glance at her, retired, reappearing shortly afterwards with the water, with which she proceeded to restore her much-loved mistress to her senses.  Tabitha, as soon as this was accomplished, stalked off to her room, leaving her sister and Martha sitting drearily enough in the small parlour, watching the fire and conversing in whispers.

It was clear to the old servant that this state of things could not last much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so lonely and so mysterious.  To her great delight Eunice at length consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits.  A small but comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a speedy change.