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Mrs. Dent arose with alacrity and fetched a mass of white from the closet. “Here,” she said, “if you want to sew the lace on this nightgown. I was going to put her to it, but she’ll be glad enough to get rid of it. She ought to have this and one more before she goes. I don’t like to send her away without some good underclothing.”

Rebecca snatched at the little white garment and sewed feverishly.

That night she wakened from a deep sleep a little after midnight and lay a minute trying to collect her faculties and explain to herself what she was listening to. At last she discovered that it was the then popular strains of “The Maiden’s Prayer” floating up through the floor from the piano in the sitting-room below. She jumped up, threw a shawl over her nightgown, and hurried downstairs trembling. There was nobody in the sitting-room; the piano was silent. She ran to Mrs. Dent’s bedroom and called hysterically:

“Emeline! Emeline!”

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Dent’s voice from the bed. The voice was stern, but had a note of consciousness in it.

“Who–who was that playing ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ in the sitting- room, on the piano?”

“I didn’t hear anybody.”

“There was some one.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I tell you there was some one. But–THERE AIN’T ANYBODY THERE.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I did–somebody playing ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ on the piano. Has Agnes got home? I WANT TO KNOW.”

“Of course Agnes hasn’t got home,” answered Mrs. Dent with rising inflection. “Be you gone crazy over that girl? The last boat from Porter’s Falls was in before we went to bed. Of course she ain’t come.”

“I heard–“

“You were dreaming.”

“I wasn’t; I was broad awake.”

Rebecca went back to her chamber and kept her lamp burning all night.

The next morning her eyes upon Mrs. Dent were wary and blazing with suppressed excitement. She kept opening her mouth as if to speak, then frowning, and setting her lips hard. After breakfast she went upstairs, and came down presently with her coat and bonnet.

“Now, Emeline,” she said, “I want to know where the Slocums live.”

Mrs. Dent gave a strange, long, half-lidded glance at her. She was finishing her coffee.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’m going over there and find out if they have heard anything from her daughter and Agnes since they went away. I don’t like what I heard last night.”

“You must have been dreaming.”

“It don’t make any odds whether I was or not. Does she play ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ on the piano? I want to know.”

“What if she does? She plays it a little, I believe. I don’t know. She don’t half play it, anyhow; she ain’t got an ear.”

“That wasn’t half played last night. I don’t like such things happening. I ain’t superstitious, but I don’t like it. I’m going. Where do the Slocum’s live?”

“You go down the road over the bridge past the old grist mill, then you turn to the left; it’s the only house for half a mile. You can t miss it. It has a barn with a ship in full sail on the cupola.”

“Well, I’m going. I don’t feel easy.”

About two hours later Rebecca returned. There were red spots on her cheeks. She looked wild. “I’ve been there,” she said, and there isn’t a soul at home. Something HAS happened.”

“What has happened?”

“I don’t know. Something. I had a warning last night. There wasn’t a soul there. They’ve been sent for to Lincoln.”

“Did you see anybody to ask?” asked Mrs. Dent with thinly concealed anxiety.

“I asked the woman that lives on the turn of the road. She’s stone deaf. I suppose you know. She listened while I screamed at her to know where the Slocums were, and then she said, ‘Mrs. Smith don’t live here.’ I didn’t see anybody on the road, and that’s the only house. What do you suppose it means?”