it, as if it had settled down here to
brood over a mysterious past. I never see it, especially at twilight,
that I don't wonder what lies so heavily upon its conscience. Is it a
crime? There would be nothing strange about it if it was. Such old
houses rarely have a clean past."

It was nonchalantly said, but it sank deep into my heart. Not that I
felt that he had any motive in saying it--I knew the young scapegrace
too well--but that I was conscious from his first word of two eyes
burning on my face, which robbed me of all self-possession, though I
think I sat without movement, and only paled the slightest in the world.

"A house that dates back to a time when the white men and the red fought
every inch of the territory on which it stands would be an anomaly if it
did not have some drops of blood upon it," I ventured to say, as soon as
I could command my emotions.

"True," broke in a low, slow voice--that of Madame Letellier. "Do you
know of any especial tragedy that makes the house memorable?"

I turned and gave her a look before replying. She was seated in the
shadows of a remote corner, and had so withdrawn herself behind her
daughter that I could see nothing of her face. But her hands were
visible, and from the force with which she held them clasped in her lap
I perceived that the subject we were discussing possessed a greater
interest for her than for any one else in the room. "She has heard
something of the tragedy connected with this house," was my inward
comment, as I prepared to answer her.

"There is one," I began, and paused. Something of the instinct of the
cat with the mouse had entered into me. I felt like playing with her
suspense, cruel as it may seem.

"Oh, tell us!" broke in the daughter, a sudden flush of interest
suffusing for a moment her white cheek. "That is, if it is not too
horrible. I never like horrible stories; they frighten me. And as for a
ghost--if I thought you kept such a creature about your house, I should
leave it at once."

"We have no ghosts," I answered, with a gravity that struck even myself
unpleasantly, it was in such contrast to her mellow and playful tones.
"Ghosts are commonplace. We countenance nothing commonplace here."

"Good!" broke in a voice from the crowd of young men. "The house is
above such follies. It must have some wonderful secret, then. What is
it, Mrs. Truax? Do you own a banshee? Have you a--"

"Mamma, you hurt me!"

The cry was involuntary. Madame