ear to the old servant that this state of things could not last
much longer, and she repeatedly urged her mistress to leave a house so
lonely and so mysterious. To her great delight Eunice at length
consented, despite the fierce opposition of her sister, and at the mere
idea of leaving gained greatly in health and spirits. A small but
comfortable house was hired in Morville, and arrangements made for a
speedy change.

It was the last night in the old house, and all the wild spirits of the
marshes, the wind and the sea seemed to have joined forces for one
supreme effort. When the wind dropped, as it did at brief intervals,
the sea was heard moaning on the distant beach, strangely mingled with
the desolate warning of the bell-buoy as it rocked to the waves. Then
the wind rose again, and the noise of the sea was lost in the fierce
gusts which, finding no obstacle on the open marshes, swept with their
full fury upon the house by the creek. The strange voices of the air
shrieked in its chimneys windows rattled, doors slammed, and even, the
very curtains seemed to live and move.

Eunice was in bed, awake. A small nightlight in a saucer of oil shed a
sickly glare upon the worm-eaten old furniture, distorting the most
innocent articles into ghastly shapes. A wilder gust than usual almost
deprived her of the protection afforded by that poor light, and she lay
listening fearfully to the creakings and other noises on the stairs,
bitterly regretting that she had not asked Martha to sleep with her.
But it was not too late even now. She slipped hastily to the floor,
crossed to the huge wardrobe, and was in the very act of taking her
dressing-gown from its peg when an unmistakable footfall was heard on
the stairs. The robe dropped from her shaking fingers, and with a
quickly beating heart she regained her bed.

The sounds ceased and a deep silence followed, which she herself was
unable to break although she strove hard to do so. A wild gust of wind
shook the windows and nearly extinguished the light, and when its flame
had regained its accustomed steadiness she saw that the door was slowly
opening, while the huge shadow of a hand blotted the papered wall.
Still her tongue refused its office. The door flew open with a crash, a
cloaked figure entered and, throwing aside its coverings, she saw with a
horror past all expression the napkin-bound face of the dead Ursula
smiling terribly at her. In her last extremity she raised