We have not yet described Lizzie Allen—­and she deserves description.  A fixture in the Van Gorder household since her sixteenth year, she had long ere now attained the dignity of a Tradition.  The slip of a colleen fresh from Kerry had grown old with her mistress, until the casual bond between mistress and servant had changed into something deeper; more in keeping with a better-mannered age than ours.  One could not imagine Miss Cornelia without a Lizzie to grumble at and cherish—­or Lizzie without a Miss Cornelia to baby and scold with the privileged frankness of such old family servitors.  The two were at once a contrast and a complement.  Fifty years of American ways had not shaken Lizzie’s firm belief in banshees and leprechauns or tamed her wild Irish tongue; fifty years of Lizzie had not altered Miss Cornelia’s attitude of fond exasperation with some of Lizzie’s more startling eccentricities.  Together they may have been, as one of the younger Van Gorder cousins had, irreverently put it, “a scream,” but apart each would have felt lost without the other.

“Now what do you mean—­if that were all of it, Lizzie?” queried Miss Cornelia sharply as she took her letters from the tray.

Lizzie’s face assumed an expression of doleful reticence.

“It’s not my place to speak,” she said with a grim shake of her head, “but I saw my grandmother last night, God rest her—­plain as life she was, the way she looked when they waked her—­and if it was my doing we’d be leaving this house this hour!”

“Cheese-pudding for supper—­of course you saw your grandmother!” said Miss Cornelia crisply, slitting open the first of her letters with a paper knife.  “Nonsense, Lizzie, I’m not going to be scared away from an ideal country place because you happen to have a bad dream!”

“Was it a bad dream I saw on the stairs last night when the lights went out and I was looking for the candles?” said Lizzie heatedly.  “Was it a bad dream that ran away from me and out the back door, as fast as Paddy’s pig?  No, Miss Neily, it was a man—­Seven feet tall he was, and eyes that shone in the dark and—­”

“Lizzie Allen!”

“Well, it’s true for all that,” insisted Lizzie stubbornly.  “And why did the lights go out—­tell me that, Miss Neily?  They never go out in the city.”

“Well, this isn’t the city,” said Miss Cornelia decisively.  “It’s the country, and very nice it is, and we’re staying here all summer.  I suppose I may be thankful,” she went on ironically, “that it was only your grandmother you saw last night.  It might have been the Bat—­and then where would you be this morning?”

“I’d be stiff and stark with candles at me head and feet,” said Lizzie gloomily.  “Oh, Miss Neily, don’t talk of that terrible creature, the Bat!” She came nearer to her mistress.  “There’s bats in this house, too—­real bats,” she whispered impressively.  “I saw one yesterday in the trunk room—­the creature!  It flew in the window and nearly had the switch off me before I could get away!”