such a manifestation by a fall.

"Oh, David, what is it?" whispered Mrs. Townsend.

"Darned if I know!" said David.

"Don't swear. It's too awful. Oh, see the looking-glass, David!"

"I see it. The one over the library mantel is broken, too."

"Oh, it is a sign of death!"

Cordelia's feet were heard as she staggered on the stairs. She almost
fell into the room. She reeled over to Mr. Townsend and clutched his
arm. He cast a sidewise glance, half furious, half commiserating at
her.

"Well, what is it all about?" he asked.

"I don't know. What is it? Oh, what is it? The looking-glass in the
kitchen is broken. All over the floor. Oh, oh! What is it?"

"I don't know any more than you do. I didn't do it."

"Lookin'-glasses broken is a sign of death in the house," said
Cordelia. "If it's me, I hope I'm ready; but I'd rather die than be so
scared as I've been lately."

Mr. Townsend shook himself loose and eyed the two trembling women with
gathering resolution.

"Now, look here, both of you," he said. "This is nonsense. You'll die
sure enough of fright if you keep on this way. I was a fool myself to
be startled. Everything it is is an earthquake."

"Oh, David!" gasped his wife, not much reassured.

"It is nothing but an earthquake," persisted Mr. Townsend. "It acted
just like that. Things always are broken on the walls, and the middle
of the room isn't affected. I've read about it."

Suddenly Mrs. Townsend gave a loud shriek and pointed.

"How do you account for that," she cried, "if it's an earthquake? Oh,
oh, oh!"

She was on the verge of hysterics. Her husband held her firmly by the
arm as his eyes followed the direction of her rigid pointing finger.
Cordelia looked also, her eyes seeming converged to a bright point of
fear. On the floor in front of the broken looking-glass lay a mass of
black stuff in a grewsome long ridge.

"It's something you dropped there," almost shouted Mr. Townsend.

"It ain't. Oh!"

Mr. Townsend dropped his wife's arm and took one stride toward the
object. It was a very long crape veil. He lifted it, and it floated
out from his arm as if imbued with electricity.

"It's yours," he said to his wife.

"Oh, David, I never had one. You know, oh, you know
I--shouldn't--unless you died. How came it there?"

"I'm darned if I know," said David, regarding it. He was deadly pale,
but still resentful rather than afraid.

"Don't hold it; don't!"

"I'd