"No," said she, "it shall go to the sick children, but the principal I
will not touch, and if I die before you it shall become yours and you
can do what you like with it."
"Very well," said Tabitha, smothering her anger by a strong effort; "I
don't believe that was what Ursula meant you to do with it, and I don't
believe she will rest quietly in the grave while you squander the money
she stored so carefully."
"What do you mean?" asked Eunice with pale lips. "You are trying to
frighten me; I thought that you did not believe in such things."
Tabitha made no answer, and to avoid the anxious inquiring gaze of her
sister, drew her chair to the fire, and folding her gaunt arms, composed
herself for a nap.
For some time life went on quietly in the old house. The room of the
dead woman, in accordance with her last desire, was kept firmly locked,
its dirty windows forming a strange contrast to the prim cleanliness of
the others. Tabitha, never very talkative, became more taciturn than
ever, and stalked about the house and the neglected garden like an
unquiet spirit, her brow roughened into the deep wrinkles suggestive of
much thought. As the winter came on, bringing with it the long dark
evenings, the old house became more lonely than ever, and an air of
mystery and dread seemed to hang over it and brood in its empty rooms
and dark corridors. The deep silence of night was broken by strange
noises for which neither the wind nor the rats could be held
accountable.
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