seemed present with him, urging him to vengeance for the wrong,
until at last, when he could bear it no longer, he stretched his hands
out into the darkness, and cried:

"What is it you want with me? I am not to blame, but if there is any
thing I can do to make it right, I'll do it, when I am man. Now, go away
and do not torment me so."

Grey knew there was nothing there, knew that the spirits of the
departed do not come back again, but he was not in a frame of mind to
reason clearly upon anything. He only knew how wretched he was, and that
after his promise to redress the dead man's wrongs he grew calmer and
more quiet, though there was still the terrible pain and disappointment
in his heart, especially when he thought of his Aunt Hannah, whom he had
held so high, and whom he now felt he had loved and revered more than
any other person.

Remembering all the past, which at times had puzzled him, and which he
now understood, he was certain that she had known from the first, and so
was an accomplice. Possibly the law would not touch her, he reasoned, as
he tried to fancy what might have been had this thing been known to the
public; but he remembered having heard of a case which happened in an
adjoining town many years before, where, at the instigation of his wife,
a man was killed and thrown into his own well. The wife was hung in
Worcester with her three accomplices, but a woman who was in the house
at the time went free, though she was ever after known as "Old 'Scape
Gallows," and shunned accordingly. Was his Aunt Hannah like her? Would
people thus call her, if they knew?

"No, no; oh, no," he cried in agony. "She is not like that! Please God,
grant that my Aunt Hannah is a good woman still. I cannot lose faith in
her, and I love her so much."

And thus the dreadful night wore to an end, and the morning found Grey
burning with fever, while a sharp pain, like a knife, cut through his
temples every time he moved. He was not surprised when Lucy came and
told him his grandfather was dead. He expected it, but with a moan he
buried his face in his pillow, and sobbed:

"Oh, grandpa, where are you now, I wonder; and I thought you so good, so
sure of Heaven. Please, God, have mercy on him. Oh, I can not bear it. I
cannot bear to think that he is lost! And he loved me so, and blessed me
on his death-bed."

This was the burden of Grey's grief, for he did not stop to consider all
the years of sincere repentance which had p