It was one of those days when strange things seem ready to happen, one after another.  Dotty, whose little head was rather unsettled by seeing and hearing so many new things, had an impression that such events as these were always occurring out West, and that they would never have happened anywhere else.

Chegres in logs, pearls in oysters; and now somebody had fallen up stairs and broken her nose.  In Maine who ever heard the like?

Dotty twirled her hair, in a state of wonder as to what would come next.  It came before bedtime.

She and Grace had been marching about the dining-room, singing martial songs.  They went into the darkened parlor, still promenading, Grace’s arm about her little cousin’s waist.

Suddenly Grace stopped, and whispered,—­

“What’s that?”

Dotty listened.  It was a groan.  It must proceed from a human throat; but there was no one in the room but their two selves.

“I think there is something in the hall,” whispered Grace; “I must go tell papa.”

Mr. Clifford immediately took a lamp, and went to investigate the mystery.  Dotty insisted upon going too, though she hardly knew why, except that the prospect of some unknown horror fascinated her.  She clung to the skirt of her uncle’s coat, though he would have preferred not to be hindered.  No one else, not even Horace, cared to follow.

As they entered the parlor there was the same sound from the hall, even more unearthly than ever.  Dotty had entire faith in her uncle, and was not at all alarmed till they passed through the parlor doorway, and she saw the finger-prints of blood on the panels.  Then she did tremble, and she had half a mind to draw back; but curiosity was stronger than fear.

What could it be that walked into people’s houses Out West, and groaned so in their front halls?  She must see the whole thing for herself, and be prepared to describe it to Prudy.

She soon knew what it meant.  There was a poor intoxicated man lying on the mat.  Seeing the door open, he had staggered in while the family were at tea.  In some way he had hurt his hand, and stained the door with blood.  So there was nothing at all mysterious or supernatural in the affair, when it was once explained.

The poor creature was too helpless to be sent into the street; and Mr. Clifford and Katinka carried him into the stable, and laid him upon a bed of sweet hay.

“I’m glad not to be a Hoojer,” said Dotty, with a severe look at her Cousin Horace.  “You don’t ever see such bad men in the State of Maine.  The whiskey is locked up; and I don’t know as there is any whiskey.”

“Down East is a great place, Dotty!  Don’t I wish I was a Yankee—­I mean a ’Publican?”

“But you can’t be, Horace,” returned little Dotty, looking up at him with deep pity in her bright eyes; “you weren’t born there.  You’re a Hoojer, and you’ll have to stay a Hoojer.”