As soon as she recovered herself Mrs. Dent regarded her with eyes full of the strangest mixture of fear and horror and hostility.

“What do you mean talking so?” she said in a hard voice.

“It is there.”

“Nonsense.  You threw it down and it fell that way.”

“It was folded in my bureau drawer.”

“It couldn’t have been.”

“Who picked that red rose?”

“Look on the bush,” Mrs. Dent replied shortly.

Rebecca looked at her; her mouth gaped.  She hurried out of the room.  When she came back her eyes seemed to protrude. (She had in the meantime hastened upstairs, and come down with tottering steps, clinging to the banisters.)

“Now I want to know what all this means?” she demanded.

“What what means?”

“The rose is on the bush, and it’s gone from the bed in my room!  Is this house haunted, or what?”

“I don’t know anything about a house being haunted.  I don’t believe in such things.  Be you crazy?” Mrs. Dent spoke with gathering force.  The colour flashed back to her cheeks.

“No,” said Rebecca shortly.  “I ain’t crazy yet, but I shall be if this keeps on much longer.  I’m going to find out where that girl is before night.”

Mrs. Dent eyed her.

“What be you going to do?”

“I’m going to Lincoln.”

A faint triumphant smile overspread Mrs. Dent’s large face.

“You can’t,” said she; “there ain’t any train.”

“No train?”

“No; there ain’t any afternoon train from the Falls to Lincoln.”

“Then I’m going over to the Slocums’ again to-night.”

However, Rebecca did not go; such a rain came up as deterred even her resolution, and she had only her best dresses with her.  Then in the evening came the letter from the Michigan village which she had left nearly a week ago.  It was from her cousin, a single woman, who had come to keep her house while she was away.  It was a pleasant unexciting letter enough, all the first of it, and related mostly how she missed Rebecca; how she hoped she was having pleasant weather and kept her health; and how her friend, Mrs. Greenaway, had come to stay with her since she had felt lonesome the first night in the house; how she hoped Rebecca would have no objections to this, although nothing had been said about it, since she had not realized that she might be nervous alone.  The cousin was painfully conscientious, hence the letter.  Rebecca smiled in spite of her disturbed mind as she read it, then her eye caught the postscript.  That was in a different hand, purporting to be written by the friend, Mrs. Hannah Greenaway, informing her that the cousin had fallen down the cellar stairs and broken her hip, and was in a dangerous condition, and begging Rebecca to return at once, as she herself was rheumatic and unable to nurse her properly, and no one else could be obtained.