istress.
And it was a token of his death.

"G'long way from her', boy! Ef I didn't know as you _wasn't_ I should
think as you _was_ intoxified! There never was no sperrit never seen
into this house," said Aunt Molly, indignantly.

"I don't care! I did see her sperrit! So there now," persisted Taters,
bolting a chunk of bread and choking with it for a moment. "And--and
it's a token of my death."

"Is that the reason you're a trying to kill yourself now, you iddiwut?"

"No; but I seen her sperrit!"

"I don't believe one word of it. You're a making of it all up out'n your
own stoopid head! There, now, ef you're done eatin' you'd better go
'long and put up your hosses," said Aunt Moll, seeing her guest pause in
his gastronomic efforts.

But Taters hadn't done eating, and did't get done until all the dishes
on the kitchen table were cleared and the jug of cider emptied.

Then, indeed, he gave over and went to look after his "beasts."

At the same hour Mary Grey, locked fast in her room, suffered agonies of
terror and anxiety. She, too, had seen a "ghost"--a ghost of her past
life--a ghost that might have come to summon her from her present
luxurious home!

On her way down-stairs to the drawing-room she had been arrested on the
head of the middle landing by the sight of a once familiar face and
form.

She met the distended eyes of this apparition, and saw at once that he
had recognized her as surely as she had recognized him.

And in an instant she vanished.

She darted into her own room and locked the door and sank breathless
into the nearest chair.

And there she sat now, with beating heart and burning head, waiting for
what should come next.

A rap at the door was the next thing that came.

It frightened her, of course--everything frightened her now.

"Who is that?" she nervously inquired.

"Only me, ma'am. The ladies are waiting luncheon for you. Miss Emma
sends her compliments and says will you come down?" spoke the voice of
Sarah, the lady's maid.

"Love to Miss Cavendish, and ask her to excuse me. I do not want any
luncheon," answered Mary Grey, without opening the door.

Then she sank back in her chair with throbbing pulses, waiting for the
issue of this crisis. She was really ill with intense anxiety and dread.
She grew so weak at last that she lay down upon her sofa.

Then came another rap at the door.

"Who is that?" she asked again, faintly.

"It is I, dear," answered the voice of Emma