MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
"What is it, sor?" he asked, surprised and staring.
Before I could answer, the huge, overhanging mantel seemed slowly, silently to swing outward as if hung on a central pivot. We both saw it plainly enough, although, for the moment, we were motionless from surprise, O'Brien leaning forward, I with hand still grasping his arm as in a vise. There was the yawning of a narrow black hole, the rays of light barely revealing, as if it were a shadow, a white haggard face, the unmistakable features of a woman. Her eyes, blazing oddly, seemed to glare into ours, like those of a wild animal. Then it was all over, the mantel had swung back into position, and we beheld nothing but the solid wall. It was a weird, uncanny thing, the memory of it like a delirium of fever. O'Brien gripped the rail of the baluster, his face fairly gray from terror.
"By God! did you see that, sor?" he choked out, his voice barely audible.
"Yes," nervously wetting my own lips, yet convinced this was no supernatural visitor. "It was a woman's face."
"You mane it was rale—rale, wid flesh an' blood behoind it?"
"Sure, O'Brien," and I shook him fiercely. "As real as you or I. Brace up, man! It is not ghosts we're fighting, awful as the face looked. It was a woman, looking out at us through some opening in that fireplace."
His clutching fingers relaxed, and he straightened up, still staring, as if only half convinced.
"God grant you're right, sor," he muttered solemnly,
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