n I visited there, these wooden walls were of pale green; the tiles
were of blue and white, and afforded me endless study and perplexity,
being painted with a series of half-allegorical, half-historical,
half-Scriptural representations which might well have puzzled an older
head than mine. The parlors were white, with gold ornaments; the library
was of oak, with mahogany wainscoting, and so were the two great central
halls, upper and lower. The balustrade of the staircase was of apple-tree
wood, more beautiful than all the rest, having fine red veins on its dark
polished surface. These halls were lined with portraits of dead Nortons,
men and women, who looked as much at home as if the grand old house had
always borne their name. And well they might, for none of the owners who
had gone before had been of as gentle blood as they; and now they would
probably never be taken down from the walls, for my uncle had bought the
house, and my uncle's son would inherit it; and it had never yet been
known that a Norton of our branch of Nortons had lived wastefully or come
to want.

My uncle had married very late in life: he was now a gray-haired man, with
little children around his knee. It was said once in my presence, by some
one who did not know I listened, that his heart had been broken when he
was little more than a boy, by the faithlessness of a woman older than
himself, and that he would never have married if he had not seen that
another heart would be broken if he did not. Be that as it may, his
bearing towards his wife was always of the most chivalrous and courteous
devotion, so courteous as perhaps to confirm this interpretation of his
marriage.

My aunt was an uninteresting woman, of whom, if she were not in sight, one
never thought; but she had great strength of affection and much good sense
in affairs. Her children loved her; her husband enjoyed the admirably
ordered system of her management, and her house was a delightful one to
visit. Although she did not contribute to the flavor of living, she never
hindered or thwarted those who could. There was freedom in her presence,
from the very fact that you forgot her, and that she did not in the least
object to being forgotten. Such people are of great use in the world; and
make much comfort.

At the time when the strange incidents which I am about to tell occurred,
my aunt had been married twelve years, and had four children; three girls,
Sarah, Hilda, and Agnes, and a ba