With a broom in one hand, and feather dusting-brush in the other, she
ran down the front steps, her white cap strings flying like distress
signals,--bent down to the ground as a blood-hound might in scenting
a trail,--then dashed back into the quiet old house, and uttered a
wolfish cry:

"Robbers! Burglars! Thieves!"

Oppressed with compassionate reflections concerning the fate of his
visitor, the minister had found himself unable to sleep as soundly as
usual, and from the troubled slumber into which he sank after
daylight he was aroused by the unwonted excitement that reigned in
the hall, upon which his apartment opened. While hastily dressing,
his toilette labours were expedited by an impatient rap which only
Hannah's heavy hand could have delivered. Wrapped in his
dressing-gown he opened the door, saying benignly:

"Is there an earthquake or a cyclone? You thunder as if my room were
Mount Celion. Is any one dead?"

"Some one ought to be! The house was broken open last night, and the
silver urn is missing. Shameless wretch! This comes of mysteries and
veiled women, who are too modest to, look an honest female in the
face, but----!"

"Oh, Hannah I that tongue of thine is more murderous than Cyrus'
scythed chariots! Here is your urn! I put it away last night, because
I saw from the newspapers that a quantity of plate had recently been
stolen. Poor Hannah! don't scowl so ferociously because I have
spoiled your little tragedy. I believe you are really sorry to see