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“One of the boys at school asked me if we lived in the house next to the vacant lot on Wells Street and whistled when I said ‘Yes,'” remarked George.

“Let him whistle,” said Mr. Townsend.

After a few hours the family, stimulated by Mr. Townsend’s calm, common sense, agreed that it was exceedingly foolish to be disturbed by a mysterious odour of cabbage. They even laughed at themselves.

“I suppose we have got so nervous over those shadows hanging out clothes that we notice every little thing,” conceded Mrs. Townsend.

“You will find out some day that that is no more to be regarded than the cabbage,” said her husband.

“You can’t account for that wet sheet hitting my face,” said Mrs. Townsend, doubtfully.

“You imagined it.”

“I FELT it.”

That afternoon things went on as usual in the household until nearly four o’clock. Adrianna went downtown to do some shopping. Mrs. Townsend sat sewing beside the bay window in her room, which was a front one in the third story. George had not got home. Mr. Townsend was writing a letter in the library. Cordelia was busy in the basement; the twilight, which was coming earlier and earlier every night, was beginning to gather, when suddenly there was a loud crash which shook the house from its foundations. Even the dishes on the sideboard rattled, and the glasses rang like bells. The pictures on the walls of Mrs. Townsend’s room swung out from the walls. But that was not all: every looking-glass in the house cracked simultaneously–as nearly as they could judge–from top to bottom, then shivered into fragments over the floors. Mrs. Townsend was too frightened to scream. She sat huddled in her chair, gasping for breath, her eyes, rolling from side to side in incredulous terror, turned toward the street. She saw a great black group of people crossing it just in front of the vacant lot. There was something inexpressibly strange and gloomy about this moving group; there was an effect of sweeping, wavings and foldings of sable draperies and gleams of deadly white faces; then they passed. She twisted her head to see, and they disappeared in the vacant lot. Mr. Townsend came hurrying into the room; he was pale, and looked at once angry and alarmed.

“Did you fall?” he asked inconsequently, as if his wife, who was small, could have produced such a manifestation by a fall.

“Oh, David, what is it?” whispered Mrs. Townsend.

“Darned if I know!” said David.

“Don’t swear. It’s too awful. Oh, see the looking-glass, David!”

“I see it. The one over the library mantel is broken, too.”

“Oh, it is a sign of death!”

Cordelia’s feet were heard as she staggered on the stairs. She almost fell into the room. She reeled over to Mr. Townsend and clutched his arm. He cast a sidewise glance, half furious, half commiserating at her.

“Well, what is it all about?” he asked.

“I don’t know. What is it? Oh, what is it? The looking-glass in the kitchen is broken. All over the floor. Oh, oh! What is it?”

“I don’t know any more than you do. I didn’t do it.”

“Lookin’-glasses broken is a sign of death in the house,” said Cordelia. “If it’s me, I hope I’m ready; but I’d rather die than be so scared as I’ve been lately.”

Mr. Townsend shook himself loose and eyed the two trembling women with gathering resolution.

“Now, look here, both of you,” he said. “This is nonsense. You’ll die sure enough of fright if you keep on this way. I was a fool myself to be startled. Everything it is is an earthquake.”

“Oh, David!” gasped his wife, not much reassured.

“It is nothing but an earthquake,” persisted Mr. Townsend. “It acted just like that. Things always are broken on the walls, and the middle of the room isn’t affected. I’ve read about it.”