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commended me a compete change of
scene; but, instead of taking advantage
of this, I asked for a companion at the
Th itched House.
The prescription I had begged for was
vHttcn in the shape of a note to Ada
Rivers imploring her to come to mo at
once. “Do come now/’ I wrote ; “I have
a mystery for you to explore. I will tell
you about it when we meet.” Having
su'd so much, I knew that I should not
be disappointed.
Ada Rivers was a tall, robust girl, with
the whitest teeth, the purest complexion,
and the clearest laugh I have ever met
with in the world. To be near her made
one feel healthier both in body and mind.
She was one of those lively, fearless
people, who love to meet a morbid hor
ror face to face, and put it to rout. When
I wrote to her, “Do come, for I am sick,”
1 was pretty sure she would obey the
summons ; but when I added, “I have a
mystery for you to explore,/ I was con
vinced of her compliance beyond the
possibility of a doubt,
It wanted just one fortnight of Christ
mas Day when Ada arrived at the
Thatched House. For some little time
beforehand. I had busied myself so pleas
antly in making preparations, that I had
almost forgotten the weeping lady, and
had not heard the footstep for two nights.
And, when, on the evening of her ar
rival, Ada stepped into the haunted dining
room, in her trim, flowing robe of crim
son cashmere, with her dark hair bound
closely round her comely head, and her
bright eyes clear with that frank, unwa
vering light of theirs, I felt as if her
wholesome presence had banished dread
at once, and that ghosts could surely never
harbor in the same house with her free
step and genial laugh.
“What is the matter with you ?” said
Ada, putting her hands on my shoulders,
and, looking in my face. “You look like
a changeling, you little white thing!
When shall I get leave to explore your
mystery ?”
“To-night,” I whispered, and, looking
round me quickly, shuddered. We were
standing on the hearth before the blazing
tire, on the very spot where that awful
footstep would pass and repass through
the long, dark, unhappy hours after our
lights had been extinguished, and our
heads laid upon our pillows.
Ada laughed at me and called me a
little goose ; but I could see that she
was wild with curiosity, and eager for
bedtime to arrive. 1 had arranged that
we should both occupy my room, in order
that, if there was anything to be heard,
Ada might hear it, “And now what is
all this that i have to learn ?” said she,
after our door had been fastened for the
night, and we sat looking at one another
with our dressing-gowns upon our shoul
ders.
As I had expected, a long ringing
laugh greeted the recital of my doleful
tale. “My dear Lucy !” cried Ada, “my
poor sick little moped Lucy, you surely
don’t mean to say that you believe in such
vulgar things as ghosts ?”
“But 1 cannot help ,it,” I said. “I
have heaiel the footstep no less than seven
times, and the proof of it is that I am ill.
If you were to sleep alone in this room
every night tor a month, you would get
sick, tqp.”
“Not a hit of it!” said Ada, stoutly ;
and she sprang up and walked about the
chamber. “To think of getting discon
tented with this pretty room, this exqui l
sitc little nest ! No, I engage to sleep
here every night for a month—alone, if
you please—and, at the end of that time,
[ shall not only be still in perfect health,
my unromantic self, but I promise to have
cured you. you little, absurd, imaginative
thing ! And now let us go to bed with
out another word on the subject. ‘Talk
ing it over/ in cases of this kind, always
decs a vast amount of mischief.”
Ada always meant what she said. In
V
half an hour we were both in bed, with
out a further word being spoken on the
matter So strengthened and reassured
was Iby her strong, happy presence,
that, wearied out by the excitement of
the day, 1 was quickly fast asleep. It
was early next morning when I wakened
again, and the red, frosty sun was rising
above the trees. When 1 opened my
eyes, the first object they met was Ada,
sitting in the window, her forehead
against the pane, and her hands locked
in !c; ;ap. bhe was very pale, and her
brows were knit in perplexed thought,
t had never seen her look so strangely
before.
A swif thought struck me. I started
up, and <■ ied, “0 Ada ! forgive me for
g sing to deep so soon. / know i/ou have
heard it.
She unknit her brows, rose from her
seat, an came and sat down on the bed
beside nu . “I cannot deny it,” she said
gravely ; “7 have heard it. Now tell
me, Lucy, docs your aunt know anything
of all this?”
“I am not sure/’ I said; “I canuot be,
because lam afraid to ask her. I rather
think that she has heard some of the sto
ries, and is anxiously trying to hide them
from me, little thinking of what I have
suffered here. She has been very dull
lately, and repines constantly about the
purchase of the house/’
“Well/’ said Ada, “we must tell her
nothing till we have sifted this matter to
the bottom.”
“Why, what are you going to do ?” I
asked, beginning to tremble.
“Nothing very dreadful, little coward !”
she said, laughing; “only to follow the
ghost, if it passes our door to-night ; I
want to see what stuff it is made of. If
it be a genuine spirit, it is time the
Thatched House were vacated for its
more complete accommodation. If it be
flesh and blood, it is time the trick were
found out.”
I gazed at Ada with feelings of min
gled reverence and admiration. It was
in vain that I tried to dissuade her from
her wild purpose. She bade me hold my
tongue, get up and dress, and think no
more about ghosts till bed time. I tried
to be obedient; and all that day we kept
strict silence on the dreadful subject,
while our tongues and hands, and (seem
ingly), our heads were kept busily occu
pied in helping to carry out Aunt Feath
erstone’s thousand-and-one pleasant ar
rangements for the coming Christmas
festivities.
During the morning, it happened that
I often caught Ada with her eyes
fixed keenly on Aunt Featherstone’sface,
especially when once or twice the dear
old lady sighed profoundly, and the
shadow of an unaccountable cloud settled
down upon her troubled brows. Ada
pondered deeply in the intervals of our
conversation, though her merry comment
and apt suggestion were always ready as
usual when occasion seemed to cal 1 for
them, I noticed, also, that she made
excuses to explore rooms and passages,
and found means to observe and exchange
words with the servants. Ada’s bright
eyes were unusually wide open that day.
For me, I hung about her like a mute, and
dreaded the coming of the night,
Bed time arrived too quickly; and
when we were' shut in together in our
room, X implored Ada earnestly to give
up the wild idea she had spoken of in
the morning, and to lock fast the door,
and let us try to go to sleep. Such
praying, however, was useless. Ada
had resolved upon a certain thing to do.
and tliis being the case, Ada was the girl
to do it
We said our prayers, w r e set the door
ajar, we extinguished our light, and we
went to bed. An hour we lay awake,
and heard nothing to alarm us. Another
silent hour went past, and still the
sleeping house was undisturbed. I had
begun to hope that the night was going
to pass by without accident, and had
just commenced to doze a little and to
wander into a contused dream, when a
sudden squeezing of my hand which lay
in Ada’s, startled me quickly into con
sciousness.
I opened my eyes ; Ada was sitting
erect in the bed, with her face set for
ward, listening, and her eyes fastened
on the door. Half smothered with fear,
I raised myself upoh my elbow and listen
ed, too. Yes, 0 horror ! there it was—
the soft, heavy, unshod footstep going
down the corridor outside the door, it
paused at the top of the staircase, and be
gan slowly descending to the bottom.
“Ada !” I whispered, with a gasp. Her
hand was damp with fear, and my face
was drenched in a cold dew. “In God’s
name!” she sighed, with a long-drawn
breath; and then she crept softly from
the bed, threw on her dressing-gown, and
went swiftly away out .of the already
open door.
What I suffered in the next few
minutes I could never describe, it I
spent the remainder of my life in en
deavoring to do so. I remember an
interval of stupid horror; while lean
ing on my elbow in the bed, I gazed
with a fearful, fascinated stare at the
half-open door beside me. Then,
through the silence of the night, there
came a cry.
It seemed to come struggling up
thiough the flooring from the dining-room
underneath. It sounded wild, suppressed,
smothered, and was quickly hushed away
into stillness again; but a horrible still
ness, broken by fitful, confused murmurs.
Unable to endure the suspense any longer,
I sprang out of bed, rushed down the
stairs, and found myself standing in the
gray darkness of the winter’s night, with
rattling teeth, at the door of the haunted
dining room.
“Ada! Ada !” 1 sobbed out, in my
shivering terror, and thrust my hand
against the heavy panel. The door
opened with me, I staggered in, and saw
a stout, white figure sitting bolt up
right in an arm-chair, and Ada standing
quivering in convulsions oi laughter by
its side. I fell forward on the floor ; but
MSBII ©I mi W!l.
before I fainted quite, I heard a merry
voice ringing through the darkness.
“O Lucy! your Aunt Featherstone is
th) ghost!”
When I recovered my senses, I was
lying in bed, with Ada and my aunt both
watching by my side. The poor dear old
lady had so brooded over the ghost-stories
of the house, and so unselfishly denied
herself the relief of talking them over
with me, that, pressing heavily on her
thoughts, they had unsettled her mind
in sleep. Constantly ruminating on the
terror of that ghostly walk, she had un
consciously risen night after night, and
most cleverly accomplished it herself.
Comparing dates, I found that she had
learned tfeo story of the spirit only a few
days before the night on which I had
first been terrified by the footstep.
The news of Aunt Featherstone’s esca
pade flow quickly through the house.
It caused so many laughs, that the genuine
ghosts soon fell into ill repute. The
legend of the weeping lady’s rambles be
came divested of its dignity, and grew,
therefore, to be quite harmless. Ada and
I laughed over our adventure every night
during the rest of her stay, and entered
upon our Christmas festivities with right
good-will. I have never forgotten to be
grateful to Ada for that good service
which she rendered me ; and as for Aunt
Featherstone, I must own that she never
again said one word in disparagement of
the Thatched House.
ANER’S RETURN.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE DESERT.
I was a child—my heart full of suffer
ing and sorrow, full of confusion and
fear, and I knew not the cause. My
Mother led mo by the hand.
We were hastily ascending an eminence.
Before us lay an interminable plain ;
behind us arose a mountain-chain reach
ing to the skies, and overshadowed by a
dark storm-cloud. Dazzling flashes of
lightning shot from this cloud like flaming
swords of Cherubim, and the thunder
rolled incessantly like the angry voice of
God. I looked up at the countenance of
my mother. It was pale with fright, and
furrowed with consuming care ; the per
spiration was rolling in heavy drops from
her forehead, as it was also from mine. I
felt hungry, and my tongue was parched
with thirst. I complained of this to her;
thereupon, she burrowed in the sand with
her hands until she reached water, but
when 1 greedily sipped it from my palm,
for want of a cup, I found that it was bit
ter, and almost insupportable. Then
among thistles and thorns she sought for
roots, and gave me all she found to ap
pease my hunger. Again wo hurried on
under the burning sun, which sent its
scorching rays perpendicularly down upon
our devoted heads,
Evening came The death-breathing
wilderness before us, illuminated by the
setting sun, was awful to behold ; dis
jointed rocks, and leafless stunted trees,
cast their lengthening shadows over the
plain, and, in the crimson twilight, ap
peared to move on the clearly-defined
horizon like gigantic phantoms. Behind
us the threatening clouds still lowered,
and the flashes of lightning glared
brighter in the approaching darkness.
My mother, surrounded on all sides
with terrors, shrouded her face and accel
erated her steps. Oh, how her sobs
pierced my heart, how my feet burned
with pain, and my breath came short and
heavy!
Finally, when night had completely
closed around us, and the friendly stars
were peeping down affectionately at us,
she sank exhausted to the ground, clasped
me in her arms, and sobbed convulsively:
“Oh, my child, my child, what have I
done !” And, while she bedded my weary
head on her lap, I heard her conversing
beseechingly with those stars above. I
could not understand what she said, hut
1 noticed how she often looked lip with
longing and wonder at a constellation
which represented the form of a cross.
I trembled in the chill morning air.
A gray mist had veiled the mountains ; I
stood there solitary and deserted. How
terrible soever the sight of quickening
flashes of lightning may have been, this
perfect solitude was still more oppressive.
My mother lay prostrate on her coun
tenance in the position ot a suppliant,
facing the East. “Mother, mother,” 1
cried, “It is time that wc begin our
journey; let us search for roots, for lam
nearly famished with hunger!
As she did not move I approached her
more closely, knelt down at her side and
began trying to awaken her by prayers
and caresses ; a terrible presentment ap
palled my heart, and almost rendered me
speechless and lifeless. I raised her head
from the ground ; her half-kneeling form
fell at my feet, her face, ashy pale as the
ground upon which L stood, the brilliant
light of her eyes extinguished, her lips
and hands icy cold. W ifh trembling
anxiety I sought to warm her by rubbing
and inhaling my breath between, her
closed lips. I called for assistance. No
answer, not even an echo, returned—
she was no more !
There she lay in her beauty, and quiet,
peaceful rest, the furrows of care on her
forehead smoothed over, and her counte
nance lovely as I had never before seen
that of a human creature. An expres
sion of longing desire had remained in
her lifeless eyes ; around her lips still
lingered a quiet, resigned grief; and thus
I found myself the only living creature
in this endless desert.
“Why can I not follow thee,” I cried,
as my grief dissolved itself in tears. I
cast myself upon the ground and sought
to disengage the manacles of my soul, in
order to search for the spirit of my
mother.
I must have lain thus for a long time.
When I arose again the same dark gray
mist precluded my vision of surrounding
objects, and I noticed in the countenance
of my mother evident marks of corrup
tion. Then I dug her a grave with my
hands, and performed towards her the last
sad duty of a child. Devoid of thought, I
sat in mutedespair at her fresh little mound.
I could form no plan for the future ;
wherever I might turn, I was helpless
and deserted ; there was no distant land
mark that I could have reached, even with
difficulty ; I could hope for no accident
to interfere in changing my lot. If I
ever thought of going farther on my
journey, I could not separate myself from
the grave which hid within it all that made
life desirable to me. I wished to die ;
and yet, when hunger with its all but
fatal tooth began to gnaw at my entrails,
I shuddered, and shrank back from death
appalled.
It was then that the Tyrant of the
Desert came to me—a gigantic, hateful
man. Deserted as I was before, I still
felt even more so now in his presence.
“Boy,” said he “what brings you into
my dominions? Would you like to go
into my service ? Come! I will make
you one of the strong ones of this desert,
whom nothing can intimidate!”
I followed him without a word ; why,
indeed, should I perish here ? While we
walked along, I thought of the profusion
of roots and herbs that I would gather
for myself ; “and,” said I, “who knows
but what I may be able to help myself
some day ? What treasures will 1 not
discover, what hidden powers of Nature
will 1 not subject to my control in order
to change i his desert into a paradise ? 1
also, one day, will be tall and strong as
this Tyrant, and be far less repulsive.
If there is a dominion to conquer in thjs
desert, I will not rule through fear alone,
but in comparison with such will appear
like a God.” Thus I whispered to my
self, until I was verily astonished at the
thoughts that passed in quick succession
through my soul.
It is a mystery to me now, how I could
follow the Tyrant with such incredi
ble speed, for, when I looked back, mist,
mountain, and clouds, had disappeared
from the horizon, and only the lightnings
still flashed afar off, like the twilight co
ruscations of a distant storm.
Wc travelled on till midnight. Then
my guide halted suddenly, and told me
to look in the distance.
“What do you sec opposite, yonder ?”
I looked, There, where the midnight
sky, umrelieved by a single star, mingled
with the landscape, something glittered
in a beautiful, parti-colored iridescence.
I could not distinguish the various forms;
but with the aid of my excited fancy, I
imagined to see romantic places, the walls
of which glistened in the light of the
precious stones wherewith they were
built. Countless flags streamed from the
bold defiant towers, while the interior
seemed flooded with light, and translu
cent forms appeared to float through the
halls in the very exuberance of their
bliss, without touching the floors. A
wall surrounded the city of my fancy,
and I listened, and it seemed that I heard
the harmonious sound of countless harps
mingled with the melody of many a
powerful choir.
“Oh, master,” I exclaimed, under the
impulse of my curiosity, and at the same
time falling upon my knees before the
Tyrant, “do conduct me thither quickly.”
With a scornful smile that made me
shudder, he answered :
“Much as 1 wish it, 1 cannot grant
your desire at present; there is a law in
my kingdom over which I have no con
trol, which forbids it; you must first, for
a while, graze my flocks ; noon as destiny
tells me it is time, I will introduce you
into my castle. Then, with me, you will
defy the lightning and laugh the thunder
to scorn. But go, now, and take care of
my flocks; keep them together faith
fully, defend them from beasts ts prey,
and learn from these how to be cunning
and expert in battle ; but never approach
nearer what you have seen now, for a
certain death would overtake you the mo-
meat you would dare to overstep
limits. * I will call you when the time
comes.”
I now followed the Hocks of my mas
ter, kept them together faithfully, bat
tled with lions and dragons, and learned
of them cunning and adroitness. My
pleasures were hut few. In the sweat of
my brow I ate, as formerly, my scanty
diet of roots, and dug in the sand ot the
desert for unpalatable water. No mat
ter how far I went, everywhere I found
the same indications of a cursed soil—
thistles and thorns. From time to time
the Tyrant paid me a visit; but he came
not to relieve, only to abuse, and strike
me. «: a* ’■*’
Now some wolf had torn a lamb, then
a lion had devoured an ox, and I was
punished for it all. I trembled as often
as I saw him approach; the time of my
probation began to seem interminable.
Onee I had again come so near the for
bidden limits that I could see the glim
mering of that magic light as before.
Tired of life, and from sheer despair, I
ventured to press forward, even at the
risk of overstepping the fatal boundary,
which I could not see. Woe is me!
How my fancy had deceived me! I
could now clearly distinguish the supposed
palaces as glowing rocks, rent asunder in
all directions; the floating forms were
living flames, surging out of the deep, the
walls and watchmen were nothing but
the rough, broken crevices of a burning
crater; the sound of harps I found to be
the suppressed roaring of a tremendous
tire, burning at a great depth, and the
voices resembled those of men who were
weeping and lamenting.
Shrinking with horror, I hastened
away and sought to forget what I had
seen—endeavored to deceive myself, from
fear of the dark despair which must follow
the last departing vestige of my hopes ;
but this scene remained indelibly im
pressed upon my mind.
“Is it possible,” 1 often asked myself,
“that my master could be a murderer?
Ho is a liar, and why not also a murderer?
Will he precipitate me also into that burn
ing pit, after I have served him ?”
While I was thus cay and night forever
hunted down by this thought, and ever
anxious to keep it at bay, I began to ne
glect my flocks, and went about like one
dreaming. The presence of the Tyrant
became insupportable; I could see the
stains of blood on his hands, and murder
flash from his eye ; his abusive words and
blows I counted as nothing—his sight was
a greater torture to me.than any other lie
could have invented, short of death itself.
Nor did it escape him, that I knew of his
plans, and without concealing his dreadful
intention any longer, he began to play
with my feelings as the tiger plays with
the lamb before he devours it.
The picture of that desert is still vivid
in my memory. I cannot describe it,
for where nothing presents itself to the
eye save the same endless uniformity,
there even language exhausts its descrip
tive powers in the one word—“desert.”
No mountain, no hill, no green forest, no
deep blue sea, to give life and grace to
the landscapes, like an eye on the face of
the earth; no gushing spring, not even a
dried and cracked-up river-bed interrupts
the endless plain. You search the hori
zon which bounds your vision round
about with inexorable rigor, and you find
nothing, save here and there a stunted
and leafless tree, set there as a landmark
of the dominion of Death. You look up
ward to the firmament: not a cloudlet is
to be seen ; nothing but a glaring, insup
portable light is diffused, like a glowing
flame, through the trembling air; no shady
spot offers you a welcome and protects
you fom the scorching rays of the sun.
All is open ; not an obstacle presents
itself to your hurrying steps, aud yet
there is no goal, no place of refuge so
nigh that your waning strength were suf
ficient to reach it. Such were my sur
roundings in the desert.
- ——■
If. —lt is said that a tradesman in an
Ohio city appends to his advertisement :
“ Ministers of the Gospel supplied with
goods at cost, if they agree to mention
the fact to their congregation.”
A Bad Appetite.—“ I have lost my
appetite,” said a gigantic Irish gentle
man, and an eminent performer on the
trencher , to Mark Supple.
“ I hope,” said Supple, “ no poor man
has found it, for it would ruin him in a
week.”
A grateful lowa undertaker writes to
his friend : “If ever you want a coffin
call on me. I shall only be too happy to
bury yourself or family at cost.”
The Tennessee Blue Ridge Road.—
Nineteen miles on the distance from Knox
ville to Maryville, have been opened and
is in operation, The iunds on hand, to
gether with the State aid of ten thou
sand dollars per mile, are sufficient to com
plete the line to the Tennessee river—and
tfiis it is believed will be accomplished by
1 the beginning of next year.