hamnmer, and gave, this time, a single rap. Could it be that a
footstep was now heard, coming down the staircase of the old mansion,
which all conceived to have been so long untenanted? Slowly, feebly,
yet heavily, like the pace of an aged and infirm person, the step
approached, more distinct on every downward stair, till it reached the
portal. The bar fell on the inside; the door was opened. One upward
glance, towards the church-spire, whence the sunshine had just faded,
was the last that the people saw of the "Old Maid in the Winding-
Sheet."

"Who undid the door?" asked many.

This question, owing to the depth of shadow beneath the porch, no one
could satisfactorily answer. Two or three aged men, while protesting
against an inference, which might be drawn, affirmed that the person
within was a negro, and bore a singular resemblance to old Caesar,
formerly a slave in the house, but freed by death some thirty years
before.

"Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family," said one, half
seriously.

"Let us wait here," replied another. "More guests will knock at the
door, anon. But the gate of the graveyard should be thrown open!"

Twilight had overspread the town, before the crowd began to separate,
or the comments on this incident were exhausted. One after another
was wending his way homeward, when a coach--no common spectacle in
those days--drove slowly into the street. It was an old-fashioned
equipage, hanging close to the ground, with arms on the panels, a