eriously disappeared, and not
without some suspicion of foul play on the part of the only person in
the world who had a strong interest in his "taking off." However these
things might be, it was known for a certainty that Old Hurricane had an
only sister, widowed, sick and poor, who, with her son, dragged on a
wretched life of ill-requited toil, severe privation and painful
infirmity in a distant city, unaided, unsought and uncared for by her
cruel brother.

It was the night of the last day of October, eighteen hundred and
forty-five. The evening had closed in very dark and gloomy. About dusk
the wind arose in the northwest, driving up masses of leaden-hued
clouds, and in a few minutes the ground was covered deep with snow and
the air was filled with driving sleet.

As this was All Hallow Eve, the dreadful inclemency of the weather did
not prevent the negroes of Hurricane Hall from availing themselves of
their capricious old master's permission and going off in a body to a
banjo breakdown held in the negro quarters of their next neighbor.

Upon this evening, then, there was left at Hurricane Hall only Major
Warfield, Mrs. Condiment, his little housekeeper, and Wool, his body
servant.

Early in the evening the old hall was shut up closely to keep out as
much as possible the sound of the storm that roared through the mountain
chasms and cannonaded the walls of the house as if determined to force
an entrance. As soon as she had seen that all was safe, Mrs. Condiment
went to bed and went to sleep.

It was about ten o'clock that night that Old Hurricane, well wrapped up
in his quilted flannel dressing-gown, sat in his well-padded easy-chair
before a warm and bright fire, taking his comfort in his own most
comfortable bedroom. This was the hour of the coziest enjoyment to the
self-indulgent old Sybarite, who dearly loved his own ease. And, indeed,
every means and appliance of bodily comfort was at hand. Strong oaken
shutters and thick, heavy curtains at the windows kept out every draft
of air, and so deadened the sound of the wind that its subdued moaning
was just sufficient to remind one of the stormy weather without in
contrast to the bright warmth within. Old Hurricane, as I said, sat well
wrapped up in his wadded dressing-gown, and reclining in his padded
easy-chair, with his head thrown back and his feet upon the fire irons,
toasting his shins and sipping his punch. On his right stood a little
table with a lighted