says it has got to be drawn out of Robbie by what he calls the indirect method. He has asked Mr. Dabney to win the child's confidence; that is, it was Mr. Dabney's own suggestion, I believe. Mr. Dabney was with Mrs. Brane and the doctor when they was discussing Robbie and he says he likes children and they likes him, as, indeed, they do, miss. Robbie and him are like two kiddies together, a-playin' at railroads and such in the gravel yesterday—"

"Did he ask Robbie about the red-haired woman yesterday, because that may have brought on the nightmare last night?"

"I don't know, miss. I was n't in earshot of them. Mr. Dabney, he always coaxes Robbie a bit away from the bench where I set and sew out here."

"I think I'll ask Mr. Dabney," I said. I began to move away; then, with an afterthought I turned back to Mary. She was studying me with a dubious air.

"I think we had better try the plan of watching closely over Robbie before we say anything to alarm Mrs. Brane," I said. "It would distress her very much to move Robbie out of his nursery, and she has been very tired and languid lately. She has been doing too much, I think. This new woman, Sara Lorrence, is a terror for house-cleaning, and she's urged Mrs. Brane to let her give the old part of the house a thorough cleaning. Mrs. Brane simply won't keep away. She works almost as hard as Sara, and goes into every crack and cranny and digs out old rubbish—nothing's more exhausting."

"Yes, ma'am," Mary agreed, "she's sure a wonder at cleaning, that Sara. She's straightened out our kitchen closet somethin' wonderful, miss."

"She has?" I wondered if Sara, too, had discovered that queer opening in the back of the closet. I had almost forgotten it, but now I decided, absurd as such action probably was, to investigate the black hole into which I had fallen when I tried to move the lawn roller.

I chose a time when Sara Lorrence was out of the kitchen, cutting lettuces in the kitchen-garden. For several minutes I watched her broad, well-corseted body at its task, then, singing softly to myself,—for some reason I had a feeling that I was in danger,—I walked across the clean board floor and stepped into the closet to which my attention had first been drawn by Mary. It was indeed a renovated spot, sweet and garnished like the abode of devils in the parable; pots scoured and arranged on shelves, rubbish cleared out, the lawn-mower removed, the roller taken to some more appropriate place. But it was, in its further recesses, as dark as ever. I moved in, bending down my head and feeling before me with my hand. My fingers came presently against a wall. I felt about, in front, on either side, up and down; there was no break anywhere. Either I had imagined an opening or my hole had been boarded up.

I went out, lighted a candle, and returned. The closet was entirely normal,—just a kitchen closet with a sloping roof; it lay under the back stairs, one small, narrow wall, and three high, wide ones. The low, narrow wall stood where I had imagined my hole. I went close and examined it by the light of my candle. There was only one peculiarity about this wall; it had a temporary look, and was made of odd, old boards, which, it seemed to me, showed signs of recent workmanship. Perhaps Henry had made repairs. I blew out my candle and stepped from the closet.

Sara had come back from the garden. She greeted my appearance with a low, quavering cry of fear. "Oh, my God!" Then, recovering herself, though her large face remained ashen, "Excuse me, ma'am," she said timidly, "I wasn't expectin' to see you there"—and she added incomprehensibly—"not in the daytime, ma'am."

Now, for some reason, these words gave me the most horrible chill of fear. My mind simply turned away from them. I could not question Sara of their meaning. Subconsciously, I must have refused to understand them. It is always difficult to describe such psychological phenomena, but this is one that I am sure many people have experienced. It is akin to the paralysis which attacks one in frightening dreams and sometimes in real life, and prevents escape. The sort of shock it gave me absolutely forbade my taking any notice of it. I spoke to Sara in a strained, hard voice.

"You have been putting the closet in order," I said. "Has Henry been repairing it? I mean has he been mending up that—hole?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said half sullenly, "accordin' to your orders." And she glanced around as though she were afraid some one might be listening to us.

"My orders? I gave no orders whatever about this closet!" My voice was almost shrill, and sounded angry, though I was not angry, only terribly and quite unreasonably frightened.

"Just as you please, ma'am," said Sara with that curious submissiveness and its undercurrent of something else,—"just as you say. Of course you did n't give no such orders. Not you. I just had Henry nail it up myself"—? here she fixed those expressionless eyes upon me and the lid of one, or I imagined it, just drooped—"on account of sleuths."

"Sleuths?" I echoed.

"A kitchen name for rats, ma'am," said Sara, and came as near to laughing as I ever saw her come. "Rats, ma'am, that comes about old houses such as this." And here she glanced in a meaning way over her shoulder out of the window.

My glance followed hers; in fact, my whole body followed. I went and stood near the window. The kitchen was on a lower level than the garden, so that I looked up to the gravel path. Here Mr. Dabney was walking with Robbie's hand in his. Robbie was chattering like a bird, and Paul Dabney was smiling down at him. It was a pretty picture in the pale November sunshine, a prettier picture than Sara's face. But, as I looked at them gratefully, feeling that the very sight of those two was bringing me back from a queer attack of dementia, Robbie, looking by chance my way, threw himself against his companion, stiffening and pointing. I heard his shrill cry, "There she is! I wisht they'd take her away!"

I flinched out of his sight, covering my face with my hands and hurrying towards the inner door which led to the kitchen stairs. I did not want to look again at Sara, but something forced me to do so. She was watching me with a look of fearful amusement, a most disgusting look. I rushed through the door and stumbled up the stairs. I was shaking with anger, and fear, and pain of heart, and, yet, this last feeling was the only one whose cause I could fully explain to myself. Paul Dabney had seen a child turn pale and stiff with fear at the mere sight of me, and I could not forget the grim, stern look with which he followed Robbie's little pitiful, pointing finger. And I had fancied that this man was falling in love with me!

Truly my nerves should have been in no condition to face the dreadful ordeal of the time that was to come, but, truly, too, and very mercifully, those nerves are made of steel. They bend often, and with agonizing pain, but they do not break. I know now that they never will. They have been tested supremely, and have stood the test.