staircase or in the darkened hall. But the only sounds were faint sighs
and crepitations doubtless attributable to the air from the open windows
stirring through the long-closed house, but which Wade, letting his
fancy stray, chose to believe came from the Ghosts of Things Past. He
pictured them out there in the hall, peering through the crevice of the
half-open door at the intruder with little, sad, troubled faces. He
could almost hear them whispering amongst themselves. He felt a little
shiver go over him, and threw back his shoulders and laughed softly at
his foolishness.

But the feeling that he was an intruder, a trespasser, remained with him
as he passed from room to room, throwing open windows and blinds, and
now and then sneezing as the impalpable dust tickled his nostrils. In
the sitting-room, as in every other apartment, everything looked as
though the occupant had passed out of the room but a moment before.
Wade's face grew grave and tender as he looked about him. On the sewing
machine a shallow basket held sewing materials and a few pairs of coarse
woollen stockings, neatly rolled. The poker was laid straight along the
ledge of the big "base-burner" in the corner. A table with a green cloth
stood in front of a window and bore a few magazines dated almost ten
years before. A set of walnut book-shelves held a few sober-clad
volumes, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable," "Webster's Dictionary," Parker's
"Aids to English Composition," Horace's "Odes" in Latin, "The Singer's
Own Book," "Henry Esmond" and "Vanity Fair," "A Chance Acquaintance,"
two cook-books, a number of yellow-covered "Farmer's Almanacs," and "A
Guide to the City of Boston." A sewing-stand supported a huge family
Bible. The walls were papered in brown and a brown ingrain carpet
covered the floor. There was a couch under the side window and a few
upholstered chairs were scattered about. Now that the windows were open
and the warm sunlight was streaming in, it was a cosy, shabby, homey