nightmare—but we all three seen the thing come boundin' out o' his room."

"Why isn't Mary here to give notice?" I asked after a few moments. During that time I conquered, first, a certain feeling of fear, caused less by the story than by the look in Delia's light eyes, and, second, a very strong sensation of anger. I could not help feeling that they enjoyed that endless repetition of the "lady with red hair." Did the silly creatures suspect me of playing ghoulish tricks to terrify a child?

"Well, Mary, she looks rather peaky this mornin'," said Annie, "but she's young an' venturesome, an' she says mebbe we jes' fancied the thing cornin' out o' the nursery, an', anyways, she's the kind that would n't leave her charge. She's that fond of Robbie."

"I think I like this Mary," said I. Then, looking them over as scornfully as I could, I went on coldly: "Very well, I'll take your story to Mrs. Brane. I will tell her that you want to leave at once. No, don't waste any more time. Do your work, and be prepared to pack your trunks. I think Mrs. Brane may be glad to have you go."

But I was really very much surprised to find that I was right in this. Mrs. Brane almost eagerly consented, and even seemed to feel relief.

"By all means pack them off as soon as you can. I shall advertise for a man and wife to take their places. It will mean some pretty hard work for Mary and you for a short time, I am afraid, as I simply will not have any of these blacks in the house. But—"

I did n't in the least mind hard work, and I told her so and hastened to give the result of my interview, first to Annie, Delia, and Jane, who, to my satisfaction, seemed quite as much dashed as relieved at the readiness with which their mistress let them go, and, second, to Mary, the nurse.

CHAPTER III—MARY

I FOUND Mary, with Robbie, in the garden. She got up from her rustic chair under a big magnolia tree, and came hurrying to meet me, more to keep me from her charge, I thought, than to shorten my walk.

She need not have distressed herself. I felt keenly enough Robbie's daytime fear of me, but that I should inspire horrible dreams of red-haired women bending over his bed at night, filled me with a real terror of the child. I would not, for anything, have come near to him.

I stopped and waited for Mary.

She looked as fresh and sturdy as some hardy blooming plant, nothing "peaky" about her that I could see: short and trim with round, loyal eyes, round, ruddy face, a pugnacious nose, and a bull-dog's jaw—not pretty, certainly, but as trusty and delightful to look at as health, and honesty, and cleanliness could make her. I rejoiced in her that morning, and I have rejoiced in her ever since, even during that worst time when her trust in me wavered a little, a very little.

"Mary," I said, "can you give me five minutes or so? I have a good deal to say to you."

She glanced back at Robbie. He was busy, playing with some sticks on the gravel path.

"Yes, miss. Certainly." And I had her quiet, complete attention.

"You aren't frightened out of your senses, then, this morning?" I asked.

She did not smile back at me, but she shook her head. "No, Miss Gale," she said sturdily, "though I did see thet thing come out of the nursery plain enough. But it might have been Mrs. Brane's Angora cat. Times like that when one is a bit upset, why, things can look twice as big as they really are, and, as for Robbie's nightmare, why, as I make it out, it means just nothing but that some time, when he was a mere infant maybe, some red-haired woman give him a great scare. He's a terrible nervous little fellow, anyways, and terrible secret in his ways. At first, I could n't take to him, somehow, he was so queer. But now—why,"—and here she did smile with an honest radiance,—"it would take more'n a ghost to scare me away from takin' care of him. And a scared ghost, at that."

"Did you know that Delia and Annie and Jane are all leaving us to-day?"

Mary put up her hands and opened her blue eyes. "My Lor'! The poor, silly fools! Excuse me, Miss Gale, but I never did see such a place for cowards. Them housekeepers and their nerves!"

"Housekeepers, Mary?"

"Yes'm. We've had three this summer. They was as lonely and jumpy women as ever I saw. The first, she could n't sleep for hearin' footsteps above her head, and the second, she felt somebody pass her in the hallway, and the third, she would n't say what the matter was, but she was the most frightened of all. You promise to be a young lady with more grit. I'm glad of it, for I do think a delicate lady like Mrs. Brane had ought to have some peace and quiet in her house. Now, miss, I'll do anything to help you till you can find some one to take those women's places. I can cook pretty good, and I can do the laundry, too, and not neglect my Robbie, neither."

I dismissed the thought of the three housekeepers.

"Oh, Mary, thank you! You are just splendid! Mrs. Brane says she is going to get a man and wife."

"Now, that's good. That's what we need—a man," said Mary. She was emphatically an old-fashioned woman, that is, a woman completely capable of any sort of heroism, but who never feels safe unless there is a man in the house. "Those black men, I think, are worse'n ghosts about a place. Not that they come in often, but one of the housekeepers was askin' that George be allowed to sleep inside. I was against it myself. Now, you depend upon me, miss."

I was almost absurdly grateful, partly because her pluck steadied my nerves, which the morning's occurrences had flurried a little, and partly because I was glad that she did not share Robbie's peculiar prejudice. I went back to the house thoroughly braced, and watched the three old women depart without a pang.

Nevertheless, that description of the other housekeepers did linger uncomfortably in my memory.

CHAPTER IV—PAUL DABNEY

I'LL be glad to get at this kitchen," said Mary when we went down to survey the scene of our impromptu labors; "those old women were abominably careless. Why, they left enough food about and wasted enough to feed an army. I would n't wonder, miss, if some of them blacks from outside come in here and make a fine meal off of pickin's. They could easy enough, and Mrs. Brane never miss it."

"I dare say," said I, inspecting the bright, cheerful place with real pleasure; "but, at any rate, Delia was a clean old soul. Everything's as bright as a new pin."

Mary begrudged Delia this compliment. "Outside, miss," she said, "but it's a whited sepulchre"—she pronounced it "sepoolcur"—"Look in here a moment. There's a closet that's just a scandal."

She threw open a low door in the far end of the kitchen and, bending, I peered in.

"Why," I said, "it's been used as a storehouse for old junk. One end is just a heap of broken-down furniture and old machinery. It would be a job to clear out, too, heavy as lead. I doubt if a woman could move most of it. I think Delia tried, for I see that things have been pushed to one side. Let me have a candle. You go on with your bread-making, while I get to work in here. I might do a little to straighten things out."

Mary lit a candle and handed it to me, and I went poking about amongst a clutter of broken implements, pots and kettles, old garden tools, even a lawn-mower, and came against a great mass of iron, which turned out to be a lawn-roller. However did it get in here, and why was it put here? I gave it a push, and found that it rolled ponderously, but very silently aside. In the effort I lost my balance a little, and put my hand out to the wall. It went into damp darkness, and I fell. There was no wall at the