and to the purpose. Mr. Amblecrom, the postmaster, was a man of
few words, and especially wary as to his expressions in a letter.

"Dear madam," he wrote, "your favour rec'ed. No Slocums in Ford's
Village. All dead. Addie ten years ago, her mother two years
later, her father five. House vacant. Mrs. John Dent said to have
neglected stepdaughter. Girl was sick. Medicine not given. Talk
of taking action. Not enough evidence. House said to be haunted.
Strange sights and sounds. Your niece, Agnes Dent, died a year
ago, about this time.

"Yours truly,

"THOMAS AMBLECROM."



THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL


"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before Edward
died," said Caroline Glynn.

She was elderly, tall, and harshly thin, with a hard colourlessness
of face. She spoke not with acrimony, but with grave severity.
Rebecca Ann Glynn, younger, stouter and rosy of face between her
crinkling puffs of gray hair, gasped, by way of assent. She sat in
a wide flounce of black silk in the corner of the sofa, and rolled
terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her sister Mrs. Stephen
Brigham, who had been Emma Glynn, the one beauty of the family.