o read their books, Darlint, for sure
there's no knowing what the black words might be saying."

But although this is the only outpouring of Ellen's confidence to
Sigurd at which I played eavesdropper, too often her mad screeches
would bring us pell-mell into the kitchen where we would find the two
of them wrought to a state of highest excitement. Once Sigurd, lying at
full length, was squeezing a hollow rubber ball between his lips,
making it emit harrowing squeaks that Ellen, hopping grotesquely up and
down, identified as the cries of an imprisoned banshee. Another time
she had one arm clasped about Sigurd's neck and with the other hand was
pounding her little alarm clock on the floor, entreating him, "Bite the
feaver whin it jumps out, Darlint. A year ago by this clock it was that
Poor Ellen had the feaver and died and she has been in the Fire ever
since."

Again we heard sounds of scuffling and struggle, punctuated by
desperate screams from Ellen and furious barks from Sigurd. The kitchen
was in a whirlwind, but Ellen was presently calmed enough to explain to
us in terrified gasps that the demons were trying to drag her away from
the throne of God and that she had set Sigurd on her tormentors. Our
gallant collie evidently drove off the fiends, for Ellen's passion of
resistance suddenly ceased and, sinking to the floor, she hid her
convulsed face in Sigurd's ruff, wailing, "But next time they'll get
me. Poor Ellen! Poor Ellen! It's a sore and sorry life she's had, and
to come to the Pain in the end!"

On the last night of Ellen's stay with us,--for we had arranged,
without telling her, to have the crazy old creature transferred to the
office of a friendly physician, where her prowess with the
scrubbing-brush would be appreciated and her mental peculiarities be
under wise and humane observation--an ear-splitting yell once more
summoned us post-haste to the kitchen. Sigurd, erect on rigid legs, was
staring with an uncanny fixity of gaze on vacancy, while Ellen, on her
knees, wringing her hands above her head, was alternately abjuring him
and Heaven.

"O Darlint, is it my death ye're after seeing now? Is it Poor Ellen
with the candles at head and feet? Och, let me go! I lave this house
to-night. It's not Poor Ellen will bide with a dog does be looking at
her own ghost."

"Nonsense, Ellen!" protested Joy-of-Life, interposing her strong,
wholesome presence between the distracted old woman and the outside
door. "The