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“And lost a good wife, perhaps, for the sake of a ghost, uncle!” said Janet.

“If I lost a wife at all, it was a stingy one. I should have been ashamed of her all my life long.”

“Better than a spendthrift,” said Janet.

“How do you know that?” returned her uncle. “All the difference I see is, that the extravagant ruins the rich, and the stingy robs the poor.”

“But perhaps she repented, uncle,” said Kate.

“I don’t think she did, Katey. Look here.”

Uncle Cornelius drew from the breast pocket of his coat a black-edged letter.

“I have kept up my friendship with her brother,” he said. “All he knows about the matter is, that either we had a quarrel, or she refused me;–he is not sure which. I must say for Laetitia, that she was no tattler. Well, here’s a letter I had from James this very morning. I will read it to you.

“‘MY DEAR MR. HEYWOOD,–We have had a terrible \shock this morning. Letty did not come down to breakfast, and Lizzie went to see if she was ill. We heard her scream, and, rushing up, there was poor Letty, sitting at the old bureau, quite dead. She had fallen forward on the desk, and her housekeeping-book was crumpled up under her. She had been so all night long, we suppose, for she was not undressed, and was quite cold. The doctors say it was disease of the heart.’

“There!” said Uncle Cornie, folding up the letter.

“Do you think the ghost had anything to do with it, uncle?” asked Kate, almost under her breath.

“How should I know, my dear? Possibly.”

“It’s very sad,” said Janet; “but I don’t see the good of it all. If the ghost had come to tell that she had hidden away money in some secret place in the old bureau, one would see why she had been permitted to come back. But what was the good of those accounts after they were over and done with? I don’t believe in the ghost.”

“Ah, Janet, Janet! but those wretched accounts were not over and done with, you see. That is the misery of it.”

Uncle Cornelius rose without another word, bade them good-night, and walked out into the wind.