life happy. I'll soon come and attend to you. There, old boy!—but you ought to have struck out at ’em.”
Having thus by turns caressed and expostulated with the animal, he repaired to the kitchen, and having explained all to cook, asked her pointedly, what she really thought of it.
"What do I think of it!” she exclaimed. “What can any one think of it? But how did they get the key? Did you leave it in the door last night?”
“No, I bronght it in and hung it upon that blessed hook, where it has always hung of a night since the last go, and where I found it hanging this morning.”
“Well, the fact of it is I can’t live in the house, and so I shall tell missis directly she comes down. The whole place is bewitched. It’s haunted. I’m'sure of it. It isn’t fit for flesh and blood to live in.”
Mary was then informed of the circumstance, and when she had dwelt sufficiently long on the really mysterious character of the pro- ceeding, she went up to inform her mistress, who received the intelli- gence with a degree of composure, at which Mary was perfectly amazed.
It must not, however, be supposed, that Aunt Eleanor failed to feel it. She did feel it deeply, but the expression of her feelings was calm.
“We shall find it all out, by-and-by,” she observed ; “these practices cannot be carried on long. Time discovers all things. We must have patience.”
“But isn’t it horrid, ma’am—isn’t it frightful—that these things should go on, ma’am, night after night, without having a stopper put upon 'em.
“It is very annoying, Mary—very! But we shall discover it all be- fore long. I have no doubt of that.”
“I hope to goodness we shall,” returned Mary, “I’m sure, ma’am, it’s shocking to live so. It’s enough to frighten all of us out of our wits.”
“Very true,” said Aunt Eleanor, calmly, “very true;” and while dressing and listening to Mary’s expression of fear, she at intervals re- peated “very true.”
Having finished her toilet, she descended to the breakfast-room, where Sylvester—who had as usual been called by Mary—soon joined her; and when she had explained to him the fact of the horse having been again taken out of the stable and treated with severity, he could not refrain from shedding tears; for as Snorter had been his dear father’s favourite horse, and had been given to his aunt in the full con- viction that it would be most kindly treated, a variety of fond associa- tions were recalled, as he exclaimed, in touching accents of filial affec- tion, “I would not have him injured for the world.”
“He has not been injured, my love,” said Aunt Eleanor, privately reproaching herself for having said so much. “He has not been, even in the slightest degree, injured. On the contrary, they appear to have taken great care of him; still it was wrong of them to ride him so hard; indeed it was wrong of them to take him out at all; but believe
