“Pho!  I’ll risk Tom,” Grey said.  “Tom knows me;” and in less than ten minutes one of the bays was harnessed to the cutter, and Grey was driving along in the direction of the farm-house, which, for the first time in his life, struck him as something weird-like and dreary, standing there alone among the rocks, with the snow piled upon the roof and clinging in masses to the small window-panes.  “I don’t wonder mother thinks it seems like some old haunted house we read about.  It is just the spot for a lively ghost.  I wish I could see one,” he thought, as he drove into the side-yard, and, giving his horse to the care of the chore-boy, Sam, who was in the barn, he went stamping into the kitchen.

CHAPTER V.

The old man and the boy.

Old Mr. Jerrold had failed rapidly within a few weeks, but as long as possible he dressed himself every day and sat in his arm-chair in the kitchen, for the front room was rarely used in winter.  At one time, when Hannah saw how weak her father was growing, and knew that he must soon take to his bed, she suggested that he should occupy the south room, it was so much more sunny and cheerful than his sleeping apartment, which was always dark, and gloomy, and cheerless.  But her father said no very decidedly.

“It has been a part of my punishment to keep watch in that room all these dreadful years, and I shall stay there till I die.  And, Hannah, when I cannot get up any more, but must lie there all day and all night long, don’t let any one in, not even Miss Grey, for it seems to me there are mirrors everywhere, and that the walls and floor have tongues, and I am getting such a coward, Hannah—­such a coward, I am too old to confess it now.  God has forgiven me; I am sure of that, and the world need not know what we have kept so long, you and I. How long is it, Hannah?  My memory fails me, and sometimes it seems a thousand years, I have suffered so much, and then again it is but yesterday—­last night.  How long did you say, Hannah!

“Thirty-one years next Thanksgiving, was Hannah’s reply, spoken, oh, so mournfully low.

“Thirty-one years, and you were a girl of fifteen, and your hair was so brown and glossy, just like your mother’s Hannah—­just like hers, and now it is so grey Poor child!  I am so sorry for you, but God knows all you have borne for me, and some day you will shine as a star in His crown, while I, if I am permitted to enter the gates, must have the lowest seat.”

It was the last of October when this conversation took place, and the next day but one the old man did not get up as usual, but staid in bed all that day, and the next, and the next, until it came to be understood between himself and Hannah that he would never get up again.

“Shall I send for Burton?” Hannah asked, and he replied: 

“No, he does not care to come, and why trouble him sooner than necessary?  He is not like you.  He is grand and high, and ashamed of his old father, but he is my son, and I must see him once more.  He will be up on Thanksgiving Day, and I shall live till then.  Don’t send for him.  I cannot have him in this room—­can’t have anybody—­don’t let them in!  Can no one see under the bed?”