Suddenly Mrs. Brigham as she sewed glanced at the opposite wall.  The glance became a steady stare.  She looked intently, her work suspended in her hands.  Then she looked away again and took a few more stitches, then she looked again, and again turned to her task.  At last she laid her work in her lap and stared concentratedly.  She looked from the wall around the room, taking note of the various objects; she looked at the wall long and intently.  Then she turned to her sisters.

“What is that?” said she.

“What?” asked Caroline harshly; her pen scratched loudly across the paper.

Rebecca gave one of her convulsive gasps.

“That strange shadow on the wall,” replied Mrs. Brigham.

Rebecca sat with her face hidden:  Caroline dipped her pen in the inkstand.

“Why don’t you turn around and look?” asked Mrs. Brigham in a wondering and somewhat aggrieved way.

“I am in a hurry to finish this letter, if Mrs. Wilson Ebbit is going to get word in time to come to the funeral,” replied Caroline shortly.

Mrs. Brigham rose, her work slipping to the floor, and she began walking around the room, moving various articles of furniture, with her eyes on the shadow.

Then suddenly she shrieked out: 

“Look at this awful shadow!  What is it?  Caroline, look, look!  Rebecca, look!  What is it?”

All Mrs. Brigham’s triumphant placidity was gone.  Her handsome face was livid with horror.  She stood stiffly pointing at the shadow.

“Look!” said she, pointing her finger at it.  “Look!  What is it?”

Then Rebecca burst out in a wild wail after a shuddering glance at the wall: 

“Oh, Caroline, there it is again!  There it is again!”

“Caroline Glynn, you look!” said Mrs. Brigham.  “Look!  What is that dreadful shadow?”

Caroline rose, turned, and stood confronting the wall.

“How should I know?” she said.

“It has been there every night since he died,” cried Rebecca.

“Every night?”

“Yes.  He died Thursday and this is Saturday; that makes three nights,” said Caroline rigidly.  She stood as if holding herself calm with a vise of concentrated will.

“It—­it looks like—­like—­” stammered Mrs. Brigham in a tone of intense horror.

“I know what it looks like well enough,” said Caroline.  “I’ve got eyes in my head.”

“It looks like Edward,” burst out Rebecca in a sort of frenzy of fear.  “Only—­”

“Yes, it does,” assented Mrs. Brigham, whose horror-stricken tone matched her sister’s, “only—­ Oh, it is awful!  What is it, Caroline?”

“I ask you again, how should I know?” replied Caroline.  “I see it there like you.  How should I know any more than you?”

“It must be something in the room,” said Mrs. Brigham, staring wildly around.