The Arm Chair Library No. 79: The Haunted Homestead — page 13: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Be. LE BPO ee ———— senses. But scarcely had I closed my eyes upon the natural world, before a strange vision, or dream, if you prefer to call it so, passed before me. Me- thought I heard the click of a turning _ key; I opened my eyes, and saw the door slowly swing back upon its hinges, and a lady of dark, majestic beauty, dressed in deep mourning, and having a pale and ecareworn face, enter the chamber! Slowly and silently she walked to and fro, her footfall waking no echo—her progress attended by no sound, save the slight rustle of her silken robe! I was magnetized to watch her, as with clasped hands and wide-open, mournful eyes, she walked in ‘silent, measured steps up and down the room. At length she paused in the middle of the floor, fixed her eyes upon mine with a wild and mournful gaze, slowly raised one hand from the breast upon which both had been tightly clasped, and, with her spectral finger extended downward, pointed to the spot beneath her feet, and then as slowly resumed her for- mer attitude, and passed with meas- ured steps from the room. I tried to speak to her—to question her—but failed to utter a sound. In an agony of distress I tried to call out, and in the effort to do so awoke!— awoke to find that I had been dream- ing. ~ But, reader! the door that I had locked so carefully the night before was standing wide open, as when the dark woman of my dream had passed through it! Day was dawning. I shivered both from superstitious excitement and from the cool draught of air blowing upon me from the open door. I drew the cover elosely around me and lis- tened, but no sounds except the un- defined, low, pleasant murmur of awakening nature—the soft rustle of the pines in the up-springing morning THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD. fi breeze, the flutter of the night birds waking up in their branches, and the detonating echo of distant, louder noises were heard. I arose softly and opened the east window blinds and then went back to bed to lie and watch the crimson light of morning kind- ling up the Orient. An hour I lay thus, watching the dawn growing brighter and brighter unto the perfect day. And then [| heard a key turned in the hall door, and some one come in and ascend the stairs. Jt was the little black maid Jet, come to make my fire. As she entered 1 saw her eyes grow wild, and she inquired: | “Miss Agnes, is yer been up, miss, to open dis yer door?” “T have been up this morning, Jet,” said I, not wishing to let her into my full confidence. The answer seemed to set her at rest, for her countenance lost its wild terror, and she proceeded with cheerful alacrity to light the fire, fill the ewers, and so forth. Before she had got through with her task there was a rush of many feet into the hall and up the stairs, and Mathilde and such of her young friends as were already up and dressed bounded into the room, exclaiming: “A merry Christmas! A merry Christmas, Agnes!” Their arrival was enough to put to flight all the supernatural visitants that Hades ever sent forth. They hurried me with my toilet; they wor- ned me to come down and see the Christmas tree, and get some eggnog. I was carried away with their gay excitement, and almost forgot my mysterious dream or visitant, but not quite, but all through the morning greetings of the family, the eggnog drinking, the visit to the Christmas tree, the distribution of presents, the merry breakfast, the arrival of invited guests, the Christmas dinner party, comicbooks: