Just above the pond on the grassy ridge stood an old, dilapidated building which had long borne the name of the “haunted house.”  I never knew whether this title was given it on account of its proximity to the “old mine,” or because it stood near the very spot where, years and years ago, the “bloody Indians” pushed those cart-loads of burning hemp against the doors “of the only remaining house in Quaboag”—­for which see Goodrich’s Child’s History, page—­, somewhere toward the commencement.  I only know that ’twas called the “haunted house,” and that for a long time no one would live there, on account of the rapping, dancing, and cutting up generally which was said to prevail, there particularly in the west room, the one overhung with ivy and grapevines.

Three or four years before our story opens a widow lady, Mrs. Hudson, with her only daughter, Mabel, appeared in our neighborhood, hiring the “haunted house,” and, in spite of the neighbors’ predictions to the contrary, living there quietly and peaceably, unharmed by ghost or goblin.  At first Mrs. Hudson was looked upon with distrust, and even a league with a certain old fellow was hinted at; but as she seemed to be well disposed, kind, and affable toward all, this feeling gradually wore away, and now she was universally liked, while Mabel, her daughter, was a general favorite.  For two years past, Mabel had worked in the Fiskdale factory a portion of the time, going to school the remainder of the year.  She was fitting herself for a teacher, and as the school in our district was small, the trustees had this summer kindly offered it to her.  This arrangement delighted me; for, next to Nellie Gilbert, I loved Mabel Hudson best of anybody; and I fancied, too, that they looked alike, but of course it was all fancy.

Mrs. Hudson was a tailoress, and the day following my visit to Mr. Gilbert’s I was sent by mother to take her some work.  I found her in the little porch, her white cap-border falling over her placid face, and her wide checked apron coming nearly to the bottom of her dress.  Mabel was there, too, and as she arose to receive me something about her reminded me of Adaline Gilbert.  I could not tell what it was, for Mabel was very beautiful, and beside her Adaline would be plain; still there was a resemblance, either in voice or manner, and this it was, perhaps, which made me so soon mention the Gilberts and my visit to them the day previous.

Instantly Mrs. Hudson and Mabel exchanged glances, and I thought the face of the former grew a shade paler; still I may have been mistaken, for in her usual tone of voice she began to ask me numberless questions concerning the family, which seemed singular, as she was not remarkable for curiosity.  But it suited me.  I loved to talk then not less than I do now, and in a few minutes I had told all I knew—­and more, too, most likely.

At last Mrs. Hudson asked about Mr. Gilbert, and how I liked him.