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the floor at a little distance. Old Bose, who always slept with one eye open, saw it fall, and marched deliberately up to smell it. "Bose--Bose--don't touch!" cried his mistress, and bending over it with beating heart, she turned as red as fire. There was as handsome a capital S as any one could wish to see. A great knock came suddenly at the door. Bose growled, and the widow screamed and snatched up the apple-peel. "It's Mr. T.--it's his spirit come back again, because I tried that silly trick," she thought fearfully to herself. Another knock--louder than the first, and a man's voice exclaimed: "Hello--the house!" "Who is it?" asked the widow, somewhat relieved to find that the departed Levi was still safe in his grave on the hillside. "A stranger," said the voice. "What do you want?" "To get a lodging here for the night." The widow deliberated. "Can't you go on? There's a house half a mile farther, if you keep to the right-hand side of the road, and turn to the left after you get by--" "It's raining cats and dogs, and I'm very delicate," said the stranger, coughing. "I'm wet to the skin: don't you think you can accommodate me?--I don't mind sleeping on the floor." "Raining, is it? I didn't know that," and the kind-hearted little woman unbarred the door very quickly. "Come in, whoever you may be; I only asked you to go on because I am a lone woman, with only one servant in the house." The stranger entered, shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog upon the step, and scattering a little shower of drops over his hostess and her nicely swept floor. "Ah, that looks comfortable after a man has been out for hours in a storm," he said, as he caught sight of the fire; and striding along toward the hearth, followed by Bose, who sniffed suspiciously at his heels, he stationed himself in the arm-chair--_Mr. Townsend's arm-chair_! which had been kept "sacred to his memory" for seven years. The widow was horrified, but her guest looked so weary and worn-out that she could not ask him to move, but busied herself in stirring up the blaze that he might the sooner dry his dripping clothes. A new thought struck her: Mr. T. had worn a comfortable dressing-gown during his illness, which still hung in the closet at her right. She could not let this poor man catch his death, by sitting in that wet coat. If he was in Mr. Townsend's chair, why should he not be in Mr. Townsend's wrapper? She went nimbly to
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