“Tempted!” Charles exclaimed.  “Cassandra is never tempted.  What she does, she does because she will.  Don’t worry yourself, Alice, about her.”

“Because I will,” I repeated.

A nervous foreboding possessed me, the moment I entered my room.  Was it the coffee?  Twice in the night I lighted my candle, looked at the little French clock on the mantel, and under the bed.  At last I fell asleep, but starting violently from its oblivious dark, to become aware that the darkness of the room was sentient.  A breath passed over my face; but I caught no sound, though I held my breath to listen for one.  I moved my hands before me then, but they came in contact with nothing.  My forebodings passed away, and I slept till Alice sent for me.  I sat up in bed philosophizing, and examining the position of the chairs, the tops of the tables and the door.  No change had taken place.  But my eyes happened to fall on my handkerchief, which had dropped by the bedside.  I picked it up; there was a dusty footprint upon it.  The bell rang, and, throwing it under the bed, I dressed and ran down.  Alice was taking breakfast, tired of waiting.  She said the baby had cried till after midnight, and that Charles never came to bed at all.

“Do eat this hot toast; it has just come in.”

“I shall stay at home to-day, Alice, I feel chilly; is it cold?”

“You must have a fire in your room.”

“Let me have one to day; I should like to sit there.”

She gave orders for the fire, and went herself to see that it burned.  Soon I was sitting before it, my feet on a stool, and a poker in my hand with which I smashed the smoky lumps of coal which smoldered in the grate.

I stayed there all day, looking out of the window when I heard the horses tramp in the stable or a step on the piazza.  It was a dull November day; the atmosphere was glutinous with a pale mist, which made the leaves stick together in bunches, helplessly cumbering the ground.  The boughs dropped silent tears over them, under the gray, pitiless sky.  I read Byron, which was the only book in the house, I believe; for neither Charles nor Alice read anything except the newspapers.  I looked over my small stores also, and my papers, which consisted of father’s letters.  As I was sorting them the thought struck me of writing to Veronica, and I arranged my portfolio, pulled the table nearer the fire, and began, “Dear Veronica.”  After writing this a few times I gave it up, cut off the “Dear Veronicas,” and made lamplighters of the paper.

Ben Somers called at noon, to inquire the reason of my absence from school, and left a book for me.  It was the poems he had spoken of.  I lighted on “Fatima,” read it and copied it.  In the afternoon Alice came up with the baby.

“Let me braid your hair,” she said, “in a different fashion.”

I assented; the baby was bestowed on a rug, and a chair was put before the glass, that I might witness the operation.