early years, and would have her little bed moved from one chamber to another,—­flitting round as the fancy took her.  Sometimes she would drag a mat and a pillow into one of the great empty rooms, and, wrapping herself in a shawl, coil up and go to sleep in a corner.  Nothing frightened her; the “haunted” chamber, with the torn hangings that flapped like wings when there was air stirring, was one of her favorite retreats.  She had been a very hard creature to manage.  Her father could influence, but not govern her.  Old Sophy, born of a slave mother in the house, could do more with her than anybody, knowing her by long instinctive study.  The other servants were afraid of her.  Her father had sent for governesses, but none of them ever stayed long.  She made them nervous; one of them had a strange fit of sickness; not one of them ever came back to the house to see her.  A young Spanish woman who taught her dancing succeeded best with her, for she had a passion for that exercise, and had mastered some of the most difficult dances.  Long before this period, she had manifested some most extraordinary singularities of taste or instinct.  The extreme sensitiveness of her father on this point prevented any allusion to them; but there were stories floating round, some of them even getting into the papers,—­without her name, of course,—­which were of a kind to excite intense curiosity, if not more anxious feelings.  This thing was certain, that at the age of twelve she was missed one night, and was found sleeping in the open air under a tree, like a wild creature.  Very often she would wander off by day, always without a companion, bringing home with her a nest, a flower, or even a more questionable trophy of her ramble, such as showed that there was no place where she was afraid to venture.  Once in a while she had stayed out over night, in which case the alarm was spread, and men went in search of her, but never successfully,—­so—­that some said she hid herself in trees, and others that she had found one of the old Tory caves.

Some, of course, said she was a crazy girl, and ought to be sent to an Asylum.  But old Dr. Kittredge had shaken his head, and told them to bear with her, and let her have her way as much as they could, but watch her, as far as possible, without making her suspicious of them.  He visited her now and then, under the pretext of seeing her father on business, or of only making a friendly call.

The Doctor fastened his horse outside the gate, and walked up the garden-alley.  He stopped suddenly with a start.  A strange sound had jarred upon his ear.  It was a sharp prolonged rattle, continuous, but rising and falling as if in rhythmical cadence.  He moved softly towards the open window from which the sound seemed to proceed.