had fancied her very
much, partly because she was not so old as the rest of the servants.
We were friendly at once, and I found her very talkative; so finally I
asked the question which was uppermost in my mind,--Did she know
anything about Madam?

"Lady Ferry, folks call her," said Martha, much interested. "I never
have seen her close to, only from the other side of the garden, where
she walks at night. She never goes out by day. Deborah waits upon
her. I haven't been here long; but I have always heard about Madame,
bless you! Folks tell all kinds of strange stories. She's fearful
old, and there's many believes she never will die; and where she came
from nobody knows. I've heard that her folks used to live here; but
nobody can remember them, and she used to wander about; and once before
she was here,--a good while ago; but this last time she came was nine
years ago; one stormy night she came across the ferry, and scared them
to death, looking in at the window like a ghost. She said she used to
live here in Colonel Haverford's time. They saw she wasn't right in
her head--the ferry-men did. But she came up to the house, and they
let her in, and she went straight to the rooms in the north gable, and
she never has gone away: it was in an awful storm she came, I've heard,
and she looked just the same as she does now. There! I can't tell
half the stories I've heard, and Deborah she most took my head off,"
said Martha, "because, when I first came, I was asking about her; and
she said it was a sin to gossip about a harmless old creature whose
mind was broke, but I guess most everybody thinks there's something
mysterious. There's my grandmother--her mind is failing her; but she
never had such ways! And then those clothes that my lady in the gable
wears: they're unearthly looking; and I heard a woman say once, that
they come out of a chest in the big garret, and they belonged to a
Mistress Haverford who was hung for a witch, but there's no knowing
that there is any truth in it." And Martha would have gone on with her
stories, if just then we had not heard cousin Agnes's step on the
stairway, and I hurried into bed.

But my bright eyes and excited look betrayed me. Cousin Agnes said she
had hoped I would be asleep. And Martha said perhaps it was her fault;
but I seemed wakeful, and she had talked with me a bit, to keep my
spirits up, coming to a new, strange place. The apology was accepted,
but Martha evi