The Shape of Fear [28]
you have the fever!' "And then: "'Stepmother, what makes the strange light in the room?' "That day the stepmother was too weak to rise from her bed, and the children thought she must be going to die, for she did not scold as they cleared the house and braided their baskets, and she did not frown at them, but looked at them with wistful eyes. "By fall of night she was as weary as if she had wept all the day, and so she slept. But again she was awakened and knew not why. And again she sat up in her bed and knew not why. And again, not knowing why, she looked and saw a woman weaving cloth. All that had happened the night before happened this night. Then, when the morning came, and the children crept in shivering from their beds, she arose and dressed herself, and from her strong box she took coins, and bade her husband go with her to the town. "So that night a web of cloth, woven by one of the best weavers in all Iceland, was in the house; and on the beds of the children were blankets of lamb's wool, soft to the touch and fair to the eye. After that the children slept warm and were at peace; for now, when they told the sagas their mother had taught them, or tried their part songs as they sat together on their bench, the stepmother was silent. For she feared to chide, lest she should wake at night, not knowing why, and see the mother's wraith."
A GRAMMATICAL GHOST
THERE was only one possible ob- jection to the drawing-room, and that was the occasional presence of Miss Carew; and only one pos- sible objection to Miss Carew. And that was, that she was dead. She had been dead twenty years, as a matter of fact and record, and to the last of her life sacredly preserved the treasures and traditions of her family, a family bound up -- as it is quite unnecessary to explain to any one in good society -- with all that is most venerable and heroic in the history of the Republic. Miss Carew never relaxed the proverbial hos- pitality of her house, even when she remained its sole representative. She continued to preside at her table with dignity and state, and to set an example of excessive modesty and gentle decorum to a generation of restless young women. It is not likely that having lived a life of such irreproachable gentility as this, Miss Carew would have the bad taste to die in any way not pleasant to mention in fastidious society. She could be trusted to the last, not to outrage those friends who quoted her as an exemplar of propriety. She died very un- obtrusively of an affection of the heart, one June morning, while trimming her rose trellis, and her lavender-colored print was not even rumpled when she fell, nor were more than the tips of her little bronze slippers visible. "Isn't it dreadful," said the Philadelphians, "that the property should go to a very, very distant cousin in Iowa or somewhere else on the frontier, about whom nobody knows any- thing at all?" The Carew treasures were packed in boxes and sent away into the Iowa wilderness; the Carew traditions were preserved by the His- torical Society; the Carew property, standing in one of the most umbrageous and aristo- cratic suburbs of Philadelphia, was rented to all manner of folk -- anybody who had money enough to pay the rental -- and society entered its doors no more. But at last, after twenty years, and when all save the oldest Philadelphians had forgotten Miss Lydia Carew, the very, very distant cousin appeared. He was quite in the prime of life, and so agreeable and unassuming that nothing could be urged against him save his patronymic, which, being Boggs, did not commend itself to the euphemists. With him were two maiden sisters, ladies of excellent taste and manners, who restored the Carew china to its ancient cabinets, and replaced the Carew pictures upon the walls, with ad- ditions not out of keeping with the elegance of these heirlooms. Society, with a magna- nimity almost dramatic, overlooked the name of Boggs -- and called. All was well. At least, to an outsider all seemed to be well. But, in truth, there was a certain distress in the old mansion,
A GRAMMATICAL GHOST
THERE was only one possible ob- jection to the drawing-room, and that was the occasional presence of Miss Carew; and only one pos- sible objection to Miss Carew. And that was, that she was dead. She had been dead twenty years, as a matter of fact and record, and to the last of her life sacredly preserved the treasures and traditions of her family, a family bound up -- as it is quite unnecessary to explain to any one in good society -- with all that is most venerable and heroic in the history of the Republic. Miss Carew never relaxed the proverbial hos- pitality of her house, even when she remained its sole representative. She continued to preside at her table with dignity and state, and to set an example of excessive modesty and gentle decorum to a generation of restless young women. It is not likely that having lived a life of such irreproachable gentility as this, Miss Carew would have the bad taste to die in any way not pleasant to mention in fastidious society. She could be trusted to the last, not to outrage those friends who quoted her as an exemplar of propriety. She died very un- obtrusively of an affection of the heart, one June morning, while trimming her rose trellis, and her lavender-colored print was not even rumpled when she fell, nor were more than the tips of her little bronze slippers visible. "Isn't it dreadful," said the Philadelphians, "that the property should go to a very, very distant cousin in Iowa or somewhere else on the frontier, about whom nobody knows any- thing at all?" The Carew treasures were packed in boxes and sent away into the Iowa wilderness; the Carew traditions were preserved by the His- torical Society; the Carew property, standing in one of the most umbrageous and aristo- cratic suburbs of Philadelphia, was rented to all manner of folk -- anybody who had money enough to pay the rental -- and society entered its doors no more. But at last, after twenty years, and when all save the oldest Philadelphians had forgotten Miss Lydia Carew, the very, very distant cousin appeared. He was quite in the prime of life, and so agreeable and unassuming that nothing could be urged against him save his patronymic, which, being Boggs, did not commend itself to the euphemists. With him were two maiden sisters, ladies of excellent taste and manners, who restored the Carew china to its ancient cabinets, and replaced the Carew pictures upon the walls, with ad- ditions not out of keeping with the elegance of these heirlooms. Society, with a magna- nimity almost dramatic, overlooked the name of Boggs -- and called. All was well. At least, to an outsider all seemed to be well. But, in truth, there was a certain distress in the old mansion,