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“Did you go to Westminster Abbey?” I asked, going on with the conversation childishly. “And did you see where Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots are buried? Mamma had told me all about them.”

“Buried, did you say? Are they dead too?” asked Madam eagerly. “Yes, indeed!” said I: “they have been dead a long time.”–“Ah! I had forgotten,” answered my strange companion. “Do you know of any one else who has died beside them? I have not heard of any one’s dying and going home for so long! Once every one died but me–except some young people; and I do not know them.”–“Why, every one must die,” said I wonderingly. “There is a funeral somewhere every day, I suppose.”–“Every one but me,” Madam repeated sadly,–“every one but me, and I am alone.”

Just now cousin Agnes came to the door, and called me. “Go in now, child,” said Lady Ferry. “You may come and sit with me to-morrow if you choose.” And I said good-night, while she turned, and went down the walk with feeble, lingering steps. She paced to and fro, as I often saw her afterwards, on the flagstones: and some bats flew that way like ragged bits of darkness, holding somehow a spark of life. I watched her for a minute: she was like a ghost, I thought but not a fearful ghost,–poor Lady Ferry!

“Have you had a pleasant walk?” asked cousin Matthew politely. “To-morrow I will give you a border for your own, and some plants for it, if you like gardening.” I joyfully answered that I should like it very much, and so I began to feel already the pleasure of being in a real home, after the wandering life to which I had become used. I went close to cousin Agnes’s chair to tell her confidentially that I had been walking with Madam in the garden, and she was very good to me, and asked me to come to sit with her the next day: but she said very odd things.

“You must not mind what she says,” said cousin Agnes; “and I would never dispute with her, or even seem surprised, if I were you. It hurts and annoys her, and she soon forgets her strange fancies. I think you seem a very sensible little girl, and I have told you about this poor friend of ours as if you were older. But you understand do you not?” And then she kissed me good-night, and I went up stairs, contented with her assurance that she would come to me before I went to sleep.

I found a pleasant-faced young girl busy putting away some of my clothing. I had seen her just after supper, and had fancied her very much, partly because she was not so old as the rest of the servants. We were friendly at once, and I found her very talkative; so finally I asked the question which was uppermost in my mind,–Did she know anything about Madam?

“Lady Ferry, folks call her,” said Martha, much interested. “I never have seen her close to, only from the other side of the garden, where she walks at night. She never goes out by day. Deborah waits upon her. I haven’t been here long; but I have always heard about Madame, bless you! Folks tell all kinds of strange stories. She’s fearful old, and there’s many believes she never will die; and where she came from nobody knows. I’ve heard that her folks used to live here; but nobody can remember them, and she used to wander about; and once before she was here,–a good while ago; but this last time she came was nine years ago; one stormy night she came across the ferry, and scared them to death, looking in at the window like a ghost. She said she used to live here in Colonel Haverford’s time. They saw she wasn’t right in her head–the ferry-men did. But she came up to the house, and they let her in, and she went straight to the rooms in the north gable, and she never has gone away: it was in an awful storm she came, I’ve heard, and she looked just the same as she does now. There! I can’t tell half the stories I’ve heard, and Deborah she most took my head off,” said Martha, “because, when I first came, I was asking about her; and she said it was a sin to gossip about a harmless old creature whose mind was broke, but I guess most everybody thinks there’s something mysterious. There’s my grandmother–her mind is failing her; but she never had such ways! And then those clothes that my lady in the gable wears: they’re unearthly looking; and I heard a woman say once, that they come out of a chest in the big garret, and they belonged to a Mistress Haverford who was hung for a witch, but there’s no knowing that there is any truth in it.” And Martha would have gone on with her stories, if just then we had not heard cousin Agnes’s step on the stairway, and I hurried into bed.