a psychic nor a sensitive type, caught the terror, as I came to call
it, before I did. Perhaps it may be explainable by the fact that
her mental processes are comparatively simple, her mind an empty
slate that shows every mark made on it.

In a way, this is a study in fear.

Maggie's resentment continued through my decision to use the house,
through the packing, through the very moving itself. It took the
form of a sort of watchful waiting, although at the time we neither
of us realized it, and of dislike of the house and its surroundings.
It extended itself to the very garden, where she gathered flowers
for the table with a ruthlessness that was almost vicious. And, as
July went on, and Miss Emily made her occasional visits, as tiny,
as delicate as herself, I had a curious conclusion forced on me.
Miss Emily returned her antagonism. I was slow to credit it. What
secret and even unacknowledged opposition could there be between my
downright Maggie and this little old aristocrat with her frail hands
and the soft rustle of silk about her?

In Miss Emily, it took the form of--how strange a word to use in
connection with her!--of furtive watchfulness. I felt that Maggie's
entrance, with nothing more momentous than the tea-tray, set her
upright in her chair, put an edge to her soft voice, and absorbed
her. She was still attentive to what I said. She agreed or
dissented. But back of it all, with her eyes on me, she was watching
Maggie.

With Maggie the antagonism took no such subtle form. It showed
itself in the second best instead of the best china, and a tendency