The Townsends all looked at one another.  David rose with an exclamation and rushed out of the room.  The others waited tremblingly.  When he came back his face was lowering.

“What did you—­” Mrs. Townsend asked hesitatingly.

“There’s some smell of cabbage out there,” he admitted reluctantly.  Then he looked at her with a challenge.  “It comes from the next house,” he said.  “Blows over our house.”

“Our house is higher.”

“I don’t care; you can never account for such things.”

“Cordelia,” said Mrs. Townsend, “you go over to the next house and you ask if they’ve got cabbage for dinner.”

Cordelia switched out of the room, her mouth set hard.  She came back promptly.

“Says they never have cabbage,” she announced with gloomy triumph and a conclusive glance at Mr. Townsend.  “Their girl was real sassy.”

“Oh, father, let’s move away; let’s sell the house,” cried Adrianna in a panic-stricken tone.

“If you think I’m going to sell a house that I got as cheap as this one because we smell cabbage in a vacant lot, you’re mistaken,” replied David firmly.

“It isn’t the cabbage alone,” said Mrs. Townsend.

“And a few shadows,” added David.  “I am tired of such nonsense.  I thought you had more sense, Jane.”

“One of the boys at school asked me if we lived in the house next to the vacant lot on Wells Street and whistled when I said ‘Yes,’” remarked George.

“Let him whistle,” said Mr. Townsend.

After a few hours the family, stimulated by Mr. Townsend’s calm, common sense, agreed that it was exceedingly foolish to be disturbed by a mysterious odour of cabbage.  They even laughed at themselves.

“I suppose we have got so nervous over those shadows hanging out clothes that we notice every little thing,” conceded Mrs. Townsend.

“You will find out some day that that is no more to be regarded than the cabbage,” said her husband.

“You can’t account for that wet sheet hitting my face,” said Mrs. Townsend, doubtfully.

“You imagined it.”

“I felt it.”

That afternoon things went on as usual in the household until nearly four o’clock.  Adrianna went downtown to do some shopping.  Mrs. Townsend sat sewing beside the bay window in her room, which was a front one in the third story.  George had not got home.  Mr. Townsend was writing a letter in the library.  Cordelia was busy in the basement; the twilight, which was coming earlier and earlier every night, was beginning to gather, when suddenly there was a loud crash which shook the house from its foundations.  Even the dishes on the sideboard rattled, and the glasses rang like bells.  The pictures on the walls of Mrs. Townsend’s room swung out from the walls.  But that was not all:  every looking-glass in the house cracked simultaneously—­as nearly as they could judge—­from top to