one discovers where Sorrow and Trouble had their abode, and where
the light, careless laughter of gay Bohemia lingered until dawn.
At night, who has not heard ghostly steps upon the stairs, the
soft closing of unseen doors, the tapping on a window, and,
perchance, a sigh or the sound of tears? Timid souls may shudder
and be afraid, but wiser folk smile, with reminiscent tenderness,
when the old house dreams.

As she wandered through the tiny, spotless rooms on the second
floor of Miss Hathaway's house, Ruth had a sense of security and
peace which she had never known before. There were two front
rooms, of equal size, looking to the west, and she chose the one
on the left, because of its two south windows. There was but one
other room, aside from the small one at the end of the hall,
which, as she supposed, was Hepsey's.

One of the closets was empty, but on a shelf in the other was a
great pile of bedding. She dragged a chair inside, burrowed under
the blankets, and found a small wooden box, the contents clinking
softly as she drew it toward her.

Holding it under her arm, she ascended the narrow, spiral stairs
which led to the attic. At one end, under the eaves, stood an old
mahogany dresser. The casters were gone and she moved it with
difficulty, but the slanting sunbeams of late afternoon revealed
the key, which hung, as her aunt had written, on a nail driven
into the back of it.

She knew, without trying, that it would fit the box, but idly
turned the lock. As she opened it, a bit of paper fluttered out,