Miss Thusa?" whispered she, afraid of the
sound of her own voice; "and did you see _it_ with your own eyes?"

"Hush, foolish child!" said Miss Thusa, resuming her natural tone; "ask
me no questions, or I'll tell you no tales. 'Tis time for the yellow
bird to be in its nest. Hark! I hear your mother calling me, and 'tis
long past your bed-time. Come."

And Miss Thusa, sweeping her long right arm around the child, bore her
shrinking and resisting towards the nursery room.

"Please, Miss Thusa," she pleaded, "don't leave me alone. Don't leave me
in the dark. I'm not one bit sleepy--I never shall go to sleep--I'm
afraid of the worm-eaten man."

"I thought the child had more sense," exclaimed the oracle. "I didn't
think she was such a little goose as this," continued she, depositing
her between the nice warm blankets. "Nobody ever troubles good little
girls--the holy angels take care of them. There, good night--shut your
eyes and go to sleep."

"Please don't take the light," entreated Helen, "only just leave it till
I get to sleep; I'll blow it out as soon as I'm asleep."

"I guess you will," said Miss Thusa, "when you get a chance." Then
catching up the lamp, she shot out of the room, repeating to herself,
"Poor child! She does hate the dark so! That _was_ a powerful story, to
be sure. I shouldn't wonder if she dreamed about it. I never did see a
child that listens to anything as she does. It's a pleasure to amuse
her. Little monkey! She really acts as if 'twas all true. I know that's
my master piece; that is the reason I'm so choice of it. It isn't every
one that can tell a story as I can--that's certain. It's my _gift_--I
mustn't be proud of it. God gives some persons one talent, and some
another. We must all give an account of them at last. I hope 'twill
never be said I've hid mine in a napkin."

Such was the tenor of Miss Thusa's thoughts as she wended her way down
stairs. Had she imagined half the misery she was entailing on this
singularly susceptible and imaginative child, instead of exulting in her
_gift_, she would have mourned over its influence, in dust and ashes.
The fears which Helen expressed, and which she believed would prove as
evanescent as they were unreal, were a grateful incense to her genius,
which she delighted with unconscious cruelty in awakening. She had an
insane passion for relating these dreadful legends, whose indulgence
seemed necessary to her existence, and the happiness of the narrat