For the first few moments, astonishment bereft Mrs. Wragge of the power of speech, and rooted her to the spot where she stood.  Two out of the collection of parcels in her arms fell from them on the stairs.  The sight of that catastrophe roused her.  “Thieves!” cried Mrs. Wragge, suddenly struck by an idea.  “Thieves!”

Magdalen heard her through the room door, which she had not had time to close completely.  “Is that you, Mrs. Wragge?” she called out in her own voice.  “What is the matter?” She snatched up a towel while she spoke, dipped it in water, and passed it rapidly over the lower part of her face.  At the sound of the familiar voice Mrs. Wragge turned round—­dropped a third parcel—­and, forgetting it in her astonishment, ascended the second flight of stairs.  Magdalen stepped out on the first-floor landing, with the towel held over her forehead as if she was suffering from headache.  Her false eyebrows required time for their removal, and a headache assumed for the occasion suggested the most convenient pretext she could devise for hiding them as they were hidden now.

“What are you disturbing the house for?” she asked.  “Pray be quiet; I am half blind with the headache.”

“Anything wrong, ma’am?” inquired the landlady from the passage.

“Nothing whatever,” replied Magdalen.  “My friend is timid; and the dispute with the cabman has frightened her.  Pay the man what he wants, and let him go.”

“Where is She?” asked Mrs. Wragge, in a tremulous whisper.  “Where’s the woman who scuttled by me into your room?”

“Pooh!” said Magdalen.  “No woman scuttled by you—­as you call it.  Look in and see for yourself.”

She threw open the door.  Mrs. Wragge walked into the room—­looked all over it—­saw nobody—­and indicated her astonishment at the result by dropping a fourth parcel, and trembling helplessly from head to foot.

“I saw her go in here,” said Mrs. Wragge, in awestruck accents.  “A woman in a gray cloak and a poke bonnet.  A rude woman.  She scuttled by me on the stairs—­she did.  Here’s the room, and no woman in it.  Give us a Prayer-book!” cried Mrs. Wragge, turning deadly pale, and letting her whole remaining collection of parcels fall about her in a little cascade of commodities.  “I want to read something Good.  I want to think of my latter end.  I’ve seen a Ghost!”

“Nonsense!” said Magdalen.  “You’re dreaming; the shopping has been too much for you.  Go into your own room and take your bonnet off.”

“I’ve heard tell of ghosts in night-gowns, ghosts in sheets, and ghosts in chains,” proceeded Mrs. Wragge, standing petrified in her own magic circle of linen-drapers’ parcels.  “Here’s a worse ghost than any of ’em—­a ghost in a gray cloak and a poke bonnet.  I know what it is,” continued Mrs. Wragge, melting into penitent tears.  “It’s a judgment on me for being so happy away from the captain.  It’s a judgment on me for having been down at heel in half the shops in London, first with one shoe and then with the other, all the time I’ve been out.  I’m a sinful creature.  Don’t let go of me—­whatever you do, my dear, don’t let go of me!” She caught Magdalen fast by the arm and fell into another trembling fit at the bare idea of being left by herself.