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His heels had scarce disappeared within the window, when the foot-step
of Betsy—light and tripping for such a substantial beauty—was heard
in the garden.

“Why, Dominie, how could you tell sich a fib,” she exclaimed, as she
burst through the gate, “Tere aint nopody at home over the way, but the
cat, andt—” she gazed wonderingly through the gloom, which was only
broken by a broad streak of light pouring from her cabin door. “Gott
pless us! The Dominie's gone too!”

The Reverend man was indeed gone; but in his place at the table under
the oak, appeared the tall figure of the old man, whose costume of rags,
combined with his sudden spasms, had made such an impression on the
good widow, not an hour before.

His cheeks resting on his hands, while his staff leaned against his
chair, he sat beside the table, with his back turned to the light. His grey
hair, stirred gently by the evening breeze, was only touched by a glimpse
of light; all the rest of his form was wrapped in vague shadow. He did
not heed the approach of the widow, nor raise his head, but remained
as motionless as the trunk of the old tree, whose branches fluttered
above him.

The widow started back when she first became aware of this unexpected
Apparition, with as much terror as a thoroughly bred lady would
experience at the sight of a spider dangling playfully before her nose.

“You here agin!”

The old man did not manifest the least consciousness of her presence.

“Did you put the Dominie in yer pocket?”

Still the same statue-like immovability; not a word or gesture from
the ragged wanderer.

“He aint teadt is he? It aint decent to come and die dis way, afore a
lone woman's toor. It's rale ornery—”

“Betsy,” the old man spoke, but in a tone so changed and deep, that
the good woman felt an involuntary thrill pervade her veins at every
accent; “I've been in the graveyard—”

“Lordt! He's peen in the graveyard!” gasped the Widow sinking into
a chair—“Toes he sleep there o' nights?”

“I saw a white tombstone, very plain indeed, but to all appearance recently
placed there. It bore neither the record of a birth nor a death, only

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the simple words `To the Memory of Madeline?' There was no grave;
no sign of a buried corpse.

“Beside this tombstone, I saw another, also new and white, and without
a grave. `To the Memory of Gilbert Morgan.' Now, Betsy I want you
to tell me what it all means? Gilbert Morgan I'm sure did not die in
these parts, and as for this Madeline—is it the same of whom you spoke
awhile ago?”

“The fery same,” replied Betsy as the old man turned his head and
bent the full light of his eyes upon her face, which illuminated by the rays
from the cabin doorway, betrayed in every feature, a mingled and inexplicable
emotion.

“Madeline is dead, then?” the voice of the old man was lower, deeper,—
his gaze made Betsy afraid.

“To pe sure,—everybody says so,” she replied, hesitating on every
word.

“She is buried beneath that tombstone? You don't mean to say it?”

Thus speaking the old man rose, and grasped her firmly—rather rudely—
by the wrist, as she stood in the centre of the belt of light.

Betsy shrunk, she knew not why from his intense look. She `felt
afraid' at the sound of his voice. So tall, so poverty-stricken, so way-worn,
and yet in such an attitude of command, that white-haired old man
stood before her, while the silence of evening was all around, grasping
her by the wrist and urging his question, in a firm emphatic tone, that the
good Widow felt her blood tingle and grow cold by turns, and at the same
time could not turn her eyes away from his face.

“It's none of my pizness. Go a-way! Jist let go my handt if you
please!”

The blood rushing once more to her face, she shone out in all her dignity,
radiant as the full moon after an eclipse.

“Very well, my child,—” the old man laughed—“Just as you please.
I'll light my pipe and go on my way.”

And then with a cool impudence that thrilled Betsy to the heart, he
strode very leisurely along the walk, and disappeared into the door of her
cabin. She saw him, in a moment, in the act of lighting his pipe by her
candle. She waited for him to come forth, but he did not seem to be at
all hurried, for while the dame, in all the palpitations of fear and wonder,
stood hesitating under the oak, a cloud of tobacco smoke rushed from the
cabin door. Should she call the neighbors? Should she summon the
magisterial dignataries of Germantown, to take the stranger into custody,
and commit him to prison under a serious charge of poverty and rags?

“But ten he may tell the folks apout my poor Adam,” was the thought
of the window, as boldly turning her steps to the door, she resolved to enter
her cottage, and dare the worst.

She entered. A tallow candle, inserted in an iron candlestick, which

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stood upon an oak table, revealed the cleanly features of the apartment,
whose whitewashed walls sequestered Betsy's charms, — and cider—
from the gaze of the profane world. It was the principal—almost her
only room. It was cleanly to a fault. The walls were white as her kerchief;
the floor scrubbed and sanded to the last extremity of cleanliness;
from the open cupboard in one corner, her burnished pewter shone like
silver; the very table on which the candle stood, looked as if Betsy had
been polishing it, under the strong impression that it was made of some
kind of precious metal, and would shine like a looking glass some day.

In the way of ornament, or luxury, there was a round Dutch clock
hung in one corner, with its pendulum and chain, swinging away, over the
whitewhashed wall—free from any thing like a case—and reminding you
of a transfixed beetle, dangling its broken legs in the air. A looking glass
too, shone from the wall, near the clock, its walnut frame, adorned with a
boquet of roses, violets, and lilies, in the centre of which, by way of capping
the climax, was placed a huge sun-flower. Over the broad but fireless
hearth, hung two dingy and smoke-darkened engravings, one representing
a Shepherdess, feeding her lamb, and the other picturing the renowned
Doctor Faustus, in the act of selling his soul to the Devil.

These pictures were evidently the work of some Flemish artist, who—
deluded by no vague idea of the ideal or spiritual in beauty—took for his
rule, Bulk for Expression, and Quantity for Grace. The Shepherdess
was a fat, blooming dame—more substantial even than the good Widow
herself—and the lamb which she was feeding, was evidently a Premium
Lamb, in its way, for it was lost in a wilderness of white wool, and
seemed big enough to feed a whole corporation of Aldermen. As for
Doctor Faustus he was a jolly Burgomaster, with cheeks like pippins and
a nose like a red hot coal; the very Devil himself was inclined to fatness,
and looked as if his only drink was beer.

Such was the apartment into which the ragged wanderer, had intruded
with so little ceremony.

He was seated in the arm chair, near the table, anxiously perusing a
slip of paper, which he held near the light. As he read, he smoked, and
seemed determined not only to make himself perfectly at home, but to
wrap his visage in an impenetrable fog of tobacco.

“Some folks seem to make 'emselves at home—any how,” said the
Widow rather sarcastically.

“Betsy,” said the old man without raising his gaze from the slip of
paper, “How shall I get inside of the Haunted House?”

The question was asked very calmly—almost carelessly—and yet the
Widow could not believe her ears. From some cause or other, not yet
revealed to us, the very name of the Haunted House, made Betsy's dimples
disappear in one ominous frown, while her capacious bust heaved

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under the white kerchief, and the color went and came on her plump
cheeks, with the rapidity of lightning.

“Wot did you say?” she cried,—rising, folding her white arms over
her bust—and looking into the old Man's face with eyes like saucers.

“The Haunted House. That is what I said. How shall I get into it?
You must know. You live next door. It would be funny if you did n't.”

And the old fellow puffed and read, as if for a wager.

“Tont you know that house is Ha'nted? Tere's spooks and ghosts
and te oldt Sam himself in it;” said Betsy waving the forefinger of her
right hand with an ominous gesture.

“The very thing I'd like to see. Why bless your soul I never saw a
ghost in my life. I'd sooner see one that eat my supper.”

“Then go into it, and see 'em. I tont hinder you.”

“Yes, yes, my good girl, but you do hinder me. How shall I get in?”
looking keenly at her, from the shadow of his uplifted hand—“You ought
to know?”

“Me!” cried Betsy in a spasm of virtuous indignation—“Do I look
as if I had any thing to do with ghosts?”

She certainly did not. No ghost—save the Ghost of a Flemish painter—
but would have been frightened at the exuberant life of her full moon
face.

The old man rose, and advanced toward the hearth with a measured
stride.

“This is a fine closet,—this between the fire-place and the wall,” and
as he spoke he turned the button of the closet door.

It did indeed seem as if these words and the accompanying action, had
frozen every drop of blood in Betsy's veins. Her hands dropped on her
lap; she muttered a prayer in German.

“Let's see what's inside o' 't,” said the ragged wanderer. Betsy with
colorless face and expanding eyelids, watched his every movement. He
opened the door, and the closet, wide and roomy, with oaken panels, was laid
bare to the light.

“Rather singular, Betsy, the back part of the closet, is bolted—d' ye
hear? Bolted just like a door! Where does it lead you to?” the old man
turned his face over his shoulder, and looked at her with a sneering grimace—
“Into the next house, may be? Ho, ho, my girl did you think to
fool me?”

Betsy slid from the chair upon her knees.

“Tont! Tont! For Gott's sake, tont!” she gasped, clasping her
hands, while a mingled look of terror and entreaty convulsed her face—
“You tont know what you do—you tont know what you do—” and she
wrung her hands as she knelt upon the floor.

The old man with his finger on his lip, regarded her for a moment with
a searching look.

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“There is more in all this than meets the eye, by Jove!—” he advanced,
and took the candle from the table, “By the Lord Harry, but I
believe this paper tells the truth. We'll see.”

Candlestick in hand, he entered the closet and drew the bolt, and at the
same moment Betsy bounding from the floor, crossed the room with a
spring, and grasped him nervously with both hands.

The old man started as he beheld the terror—the wild affright—the
almost grotesque entreaty painted on her face

“If you go on I'll holler murter!” she whispered, clenching his right
arm with both hands.

“Do so! Call the neighbors, and after I've told 'em of poor Adam's
death, I'll tell them that there's been a murder committed in the next
house, and myself and the neighbors will go in together. Holler Betsy!”

The widow as if utterly unnerved by this threat relaxed her grasp, and
fell back into a chair.

“Gott pity me! Gott pity me!” and she wrung her hands, while the
tears streamed down her cheeks.