not since the death of old Colonel Fenwicke, whose funeral
you may remember to have followed. His heirs, being ill-agreed among
themselves, have let the mansion-house go to ruin."

The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight gesture of one hand and
a finger of the other upon her lip, appearing more shadow-like than
ever in the obscurity of the porch. But again she lifted the hammer,
and gave, this time, a single rap. Could it be that a footstep was now
heard coming down the staircase of the old mansion which all conceived
to have been so long untenanted? Slowly, feebly, yet heavily, like the
pace of an aged and infirm person, the step approached, more distinct
on every downward stair, till it reached the portal. The bar fell on
the inside; the door was opened. One upward glance toward the
church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded, was the last that
the people saw of the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet.

"Who undid the door?" asked many.

This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one
could satisfactorily answer. Two or three aged men, while protesting
against an inference which might be drawn, affirmed that the person
within was a negro and bore a singular resemblance to old Caesar,
formerly a slave in the house, but freed by death some thirty years
before.

"Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family," said one, half
seriously.

"Let us wait here," replied another; "more guests will knock at the
door anon. But the gate of the graveyard should be thrown open."

Twilight had overspread the town before the crowd began to separate or
the comments on this incident were exhausted. One after another was
wending his way homeward, when a coach--no common spectacle in those
days--drove slowly into the street. It was an old-fashioned equipage,
hanging close to the ground, with arms on the panels, a footman behind
and a grave, corpulent coachman seated high in front, the whole giving
an idea of solemn state and dignity. There was something awful in the
heavy rumbling of the wheels.

The coach rolled down the street, till, coming to the gateway of the
deserted mansion, it drew up, and the footman sprang to the ground.

"Whose grand coach is this?" asked a very inquisitive body.

The footman made no reply, but ascended the steps of the old house,
gave three taps with the iron hammer, and returned to open the coach
door. An old man possessed of the heraldic lore so common in that day