to ascend them, in the groping, cautious way of a person who is in the dark and afraid. I had got nearly half-way up, feeling my way by the rail at the side, when 1 was suddenly startled at hearing the stairs above me creak. I knew I could not have caused the sound, for I had been motionless at the time. I stood, scarcely daring to breathe, and great drops of perspiration came forth upon my brow. I listened intently, but heard nothing more; and, persuading myself that my fears had been playing with my imagination, summoned courage to go on. Again I stretched out my hand to grasp the rail, but, instead of meeting the hard wood, it touched something soft, damp, and clammy. I thought it was a man's hand. With the first impulse of terror, I rushed back to the library, ran in, and locked and barred the door. I put my ear to the keyhole, but could hear nothing. I must have stayed in the room nearly half an hour, trembling and half dead with terror. I would have given the world for a light, but knew there were neither matches nor candle in the room.
"At length my terror and suspense became unbearable; my nervousness was dreadful: I was continually fancying there were people in the room; I thought I heard them moving cautiously about; I even fancied I could hear some one breathing close to me, so close that, by stretching out my hand, I might touch him. I could stand it no longer; so I opened the door quietly, stepped out, and, unlike my last attempt, placed my hand over my eyes, and ran up-stairs as fast as possible. I reached the bedroom safely, and, without any obstruction, went in, fastened the door after me, and crept into bed. Ail was quiet: you, poor little one, were sleeping soundly and gently as when I left you: your father had changed his position, but he, too, was lying quite still. I lay down, congratulating myself on not having disturbed him; and now, finding myself once more safe in bed, my fears all vanished. I soon persuaded myself that I had been the dupe of my imagination: the man's hand had, I thought, no doubt been something which had been left hanging over the stair-rail—what, I did not then know, but determined to find out in the morning. I even began to laugh within myself at my own timidity, and to think what a nice ghost-story there would be for Edward the next day. I fell into a doze, and slept for, I should think, an hour. When I awoke, your father was still lying in the same posture; it was not an easy position, and I thought he could not be comfortable. I listened for his breathing, thinking he might have the nightmare, but could not hear him at all. Half frightened, I sat up in bed, and called him by his name, but he did not speak. I called louder—still no answer. I shook him, but he awoke not; and on drawing back my hand, I felt that it was wet; the bed-clothes, too, I now perceived for the first time, were also quite wet. Alarmed and terrified, I sprung out of bed, and struck a light. I brought it to the bedside, and there—Oh, Mary! what a sight was that which met my gaze!—there lay your poor father, murdered, with the purple gore wetting slowly up from three separate stabs in his breast. The bed-clothes were saturated with it, my own hands and night-dress were covered, and you, poor little innocent, sleeping, calm and unconscious, were soaked with your father's blood. He must have
