Not a window in the old
Miller house was broken: the panes reflected the morning sunlight
in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging front
door was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella
Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had no tenant
except one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and
the far-off shelter of the open sky. This old woman, who had
survived her kindred and friends, lived in the house one week, then
one morning no smoke came out of the chimney, and a body of
neighbours, a score strong, entered and found her dead in her bed.
There were dark whispers as to the cause of her death, and there
were those who testified to an expression of fear so exalted that
it showed forth the state of the departing soul upon the dead face.
The old woman had been hale and hearty when she entered the house,
and in seven days she was dead; it seemed that she had fallen a
victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the pulpit
with covert severity against the sin of superstition; still the
belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen
the almshouse rather than that dwelling.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76