Mose dropped his torch as we
entered, and in the confusion of relighting it, the interior was
somewhat slighted. In any case we unearthed no ha'nt that night; and we
finally gave up the search and turned back to the house.

"I suspect," Radnor laughed, "that if the truth were known, old Aunt
Sukie's beckoning ha'nt would turn out to be nothing more alarming than
a white cow waving her tail."

"It's rather suggestive coming on top of the chicken episode," I
observed.

"Oh, this won't be the end! We'll have ha'nt served for breakfast,
dinner and supper during the rest of your stay. When the niggers begin
to see things they keep it up."

When I went upstairs that night, Rad followed close on my heels to see
that I had everything I needed. The room was a huge four windowed
affair, furnished with a canopied bed and a mahogany wardrobe as big as
a small house. The nights still being chilly, a roaring wood fire had
been built, adding a note of cheerfulness to an otherwise sombre
apartment.

"This was Nan's room," he said suddenly.

"Nan's room!" I echoed glancing about the shadowy interior. "Rather
heavy for a girl."

"It is a trifle severe," he agreed, "but I dare say it was different
when she was here. Her things are all packed away in the attic." He
picked up a candle and held it so that it lighted the face of a portrait
over the mantle. "That's Nan--painted when she was eighteen."

"Yes," I nodded. "I recognized her the moment I saw it. She was like
that when I knew her."

"It used to hang down stairs but after her marriage my father had it
brought up here. He kept the door locked until the news came that she
was dead, then he turned it into a guest room. He never comes in
himself; he won't look at the picture."

Radnor spoke shortly, but with an underlying note of bitterness. I could
see that he felt keenly on the subject. After a few desultory words, he
somewhat brusquely said good night, and left me to the memories of the
place.

Instead of going to bed I set about unpacking. I was tired but wide
awake. Aunt Sukie's convulsions and our torch light hunt for ghosts were
novel events in my experience, and they acted as anything but a
sedative. The unpacking finished, I settled myself in an easy chair
before the fire and fell to studying the portrait. It was a huge canvas
in the romantic fashion of Romney, with a landscape in the background.
The girl was dressed in flowing pink drapery, a garden hat filled wi