ture.

And now, only a week since, I promised myself, as my diary will testify,
that I would throw away the key of this place, if only to rid myself of
unpleasant reminders. But the key is still with me, and the room intact.
I have neither the power nor the inclination to touch it. The ghost of
the woman who perished there restrains me. Why? Because we are not done
with that room. The end of its story is not yet. This I feel; and I feel
something further; I feel that it will be entered soon, and that the
person who is to enter it is already in my house.

I have spoken of two ladies--God knows with but little realization of
the fatal interest they would soon possess for me. They came without
servants some four days ago, and saying they wished to remain for a
short time in this beautiful spot, at once accepted the cheerful south
room which I reserve for such guests as these. As they are very handsome
and distinguished-looking, I felt highly gratified at their patronage,
and was settling down to a state of complacency over the prospects of a
profitable week, when something, I cannot tell what, roused in me a
spirit of suspicion, and I began to notice that the elder lady was of a
very uneasy disposition, exhibiting a proneness to wander about the
house and glide through its passages, especially those on the ground
floor, which at first made me question her sanity, and then led me to
wonder if through some means unknown to me she had not received a hint
as to our secret chamber. I watch, but cannot yet make out. Meanwhile a
description of these women may not come amiss.

They are both beautiful, the younger especially. When I first saw them
seated in my humble parlor, I thought them the wife and daughter of one
of our great generals, they looked so handsome and carried themselves so
proudly. But I was presently undeceived, for the name they gave was a
foreign one, which my English tongue finds it very hard even yet to
pronounce. It is written Letellier, with a simple Madame before it for
the mother, and Mademoiselle for the daughter, but how to speak
it--well, that is a small matter. I do speak it and they never smile,
though the daughter's eye lights up at times with a spark of what I
should call mirth, if her lips were not so grave and her brow so
troubled.

Yes; troubled is the word, though she is so young. I find it difficult
to regard her in any other light than that of a child. Though she
endeavors to appear indiff