g
intensely curious, while the old kitchen-clock seemed to tick with one
of those fits of loud insistence which seem to take clocks at times when
all is still, as if they had something that they were getting ready to
say pretty soon, if nobody else spoke.

But Miss Roxy evidently had something to say, and so she began:--

"Mis' Kittridge, this 'ere's a very particular subject to be talkin'
of. I've had opportunities to observe that most haven't, and I don't
care if I jist say to you, that I'm pretty sure spirits that has left
the body do come to their friends sometimes."

The clock ticked with still more _empressement_, and Mrs. Kittridge
glared through the horn bows of her glasses with eyes of eager
curiosity.

"Now, you remember Cap'n Titcomb's wife, that died fifteen years ago
when her husband had gone to Archangel; and you remember that he took
her son John out with him--and of all her boys, John was the one she
was particular sot on."

"Yes, and John died at Archangel; I remember that."

"Jes' so," said Miss Roxy, laying her hand on Mrs. Kittridge's; "he died
at Archangel the very day his mother died, and jist the hour, for the
Cap'n had it down in his log-book."

"You don't say so!"

"Yes, I do. Well, now," said Miss Roxy, sinking her voice, "this 'ere
was remarkable. Mis' Titcomb was one of the fearful sort, tho' one of
the best women that ever lived. Our minister used to call her 'Mis'
Muchafraid'--you know, in the 'Pilgrim's Progress'--but he was satisfied
with her evidences, and told her so; she used to say she was 'afraid of
the dark valley,' and she told our minister so when he went out, that ar
last day he called; and his last words, as he stood with his hand on the
knob of the door, was 'Mis' Titcomb, the Lord will find ways to bring
you thro' the dark valley.' Well, she sunk away about three o'clock in
the morning. I remember the time, 'cause the Cap'n's chronometer watch
that he left with her lay on the stand for her to take her drops by. I
heard her kind o' restless, and I went up, and I saw she was struck with
death, and she looked sort o' anxious and distressed.

"'Oh, Aunt Roxy,' says she, 'it's so dark, who will go with me?' and in
a minute her whole face brightened up, and says she, 'John is going with
me,' and she jist gave the least little sigh and never breathed no
more--she jist died as easy as a bird. I told our minister of it next
morning, and he asked if I'd made a note of the hou