noticed nothing before, and had had time partly to undress—had got into my wrapper. So, suddenly—as I happened to look—there he was. And there,' said Susan Frush, 'he stayed.'
'But where do you mean?'
'In the high-backed chair, the old flowered chintz "earchair" beside the chimney.'
'All night?—and you in your wrapper?' Then as if this image almost challenged her credulity, 'Why didn't you go to bed?' Miss Amy inquired.
'With a—a person in the room?' her friend wonderfully asked; adding after an instant as with positive pride: 'I never broke the spell!'
'And didn't freeze to death?'
'Yes, almost. To say nothing of not having slept, I can assure you, one wink. I shut my eyes for long stretches, but whenever I opened them he was still there, and I never for a moment lost consciousness.'
Miss Amy gave a groan of conscientious sympathy. 'So that you're feeling now, of course, half dead.'
Her companion turned to the chimney-glass a wan, glazed eye. 'I dare say I am looking impossible.'
Miss Amy, after an instant, found herself still conscientious. 'You are.' Her own eyes strayed to the glass, lingering there while she lost herself in thought. 'Really,' she reflected with a certain dryness, 'if that's the kind of thing it's to be———!' there would seem, in a word, to be no withstanding it for either. Why, she afterwards asked herself in secret, should the restless spirit of a dead adventurer have addressed itself, in its trouble, to such a person as her queer, quaint, inefficient housemate? It was in her, she dumbly and somewhat sorely argued, that an unappeased soul of the old race should show a confidence. To this conviction she was the more directed by the sense that Susan had, in relation to the preference shown, vain and foolish complacencies. She had her idea of what, in their prodigious predicament, should be, as she called
