thence about the town, that the dark mysterious picture had
started from the wall and spoken face to face with Lieutenant-governor
Hutchinson. If such a miracle had been wrought, however, no traces of
it remained behind; for within the antique frame nothing could be
discerned save the impenetrable cloud which had covered the canvas
since the memory of man. If the figure had, indeed, stepped forth, it
had fled back, spirit-like, at the day-dawn, and hidden itself behind
a century's obscurity. The truth probably was that Alice Vane's secret
for restoring the hues of the picture had merely effected a temporary
renovation. But those who in that brief interval had beheld the awful
visage of Edward Randolph desired no second glance, and ever afterward
trembled at the recollection of the scene, as if an evil spirit had
appeared visibly among them. And, as for Hutchinson, when, far over
the ocean, his dying-hour drew on, he gasped for breath and complained
that he was choking with the blood of the Boston Massacre, and Francis
Lincoln, the former captain of Castle William, who was standing at his
bedside, perceived a likeness in his frenzied look to that of Edward
Randolph. Did his broken spirit feel at that dread hour the tremendous
burden of a people's curse?

* * * * *

At the conclusion of this miraculous legend I inquired of mine host
whether the picture still remained in the chamber over our heads, but
Mr. Tiffany informed me that it had long since been removed, and was
supposed to be hidden in some out-of-the-way corner of the New England
Museum. Perchance some curious antiquary may light upon it there, and,
with the assistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture-cleaner, may supply a
not unnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.

During the progress of the story a storm had been gathering abroad and
raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions of the Province
House that it seemed as if all the old governors and great men were
running riot above stairs while Mr. Bela Tiffany babbled of them
below. In the course of generations, when many people have lived and
died in an ancient house, the whistling of the wind through its
crannies and the creaking of its beams and rafters become strangely
like the tones of the human voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy
footsteps treading the deserted chambers. It is as if the echoes of
half a century were revived. Such were the gho