THE BATTALION.
23
a favorite cousin in the old days.
The Dutart house was small, but
surrounded by a large enclosure. With
in this enclosure, at a considerable
distance from the mansion, was a two-
roomed building, in which the house
servants lived. One of them, how
ever, Turnus, a trustworthy old man,
slept during his master’s absence in a
little back room on the ground floor
of the dwelling occupied by the ladies.
The nearest neighbors were far
enough away to make the sleep of the
young women somewhat light. The
darkness produced by the shadows of
the oak grove and live oaks and mag
nolias in the yard was intense.
This night—she never knew the
hour—Miriam, the lighter sleeper of
the two, was roused by the sound of
a distinct tapping at the door of the
lower story. She slipped to the win
dow, .and, softly putting aside the
curtain, looked down. She could make
out nothing but the form of a man.
He had evidently heard no motion of
her’s for he kept on rapping, though
lightly, as if wishing to attract the
attention only of the occupants of the
house.
“This is no thief or house-break
er,” she said to herself. “He would
break in if he were. I’ll speak to him.
But not from this room; it would be
a pity to wake Annie.”
Throwing a shawl over her shoul
ders, and slipping her feet into mocca
sins which she often wore in-doors,
she hurried into the next room, and,
leaning from one of its front windows,
called out in an undertone to the man:
“What do you want? Answer quick
ly, and make haste and be gone, or I
shall summon the neighbors. They
will come fast enough at the sound of
puj* alarm bell."
“Be a good girl, and don’t make any
disturbance,” said the voice below, in
tones which made her start, so familiar
did they seem. “Don't rouse the
neighborhood, Miriam. I’ve come for
no harm.”
“Who are you?” asked the frightened
girl, already dreading to hear the an
swer.
“I am the husband of the lady of
the house, he! he! he!” and he
laughed a laugh full of malice.
“You are not Mr. Westwood,” cried
Miriam.
“No; but I am Stephen Gastreet,”
he said. “Come, Miriam, you surely
have not forgotten me—you recognize
your cousin Ste.”
Miriam felt as if her blood would
freeze in her veins. “Where do you
come from?” she asked, with quiver
ing lips.
“Where did you put me?” he asked
in reply. “But I have no time to
waste, fair cousin. Go call Annie and
tell her she must come to me at once.
It is to her I must talk.”
Miriam staggered into the room
where her sleeping friend lay. She had
no thought of disobeying the command
of the apparition. One dismayed, ner
vous touch roused the sleeper.
“Annie,” she said, “he has come
back—Stephen! He is at the door and
says he must see you.”
Annie loked at her with amazement.
But it was no dream, for the sinister
visitor was knocking again, impatient
at her slowness in coming. This time,
too, he was calling, loud enough for
her to hear, even before she started to
her feet:
“Annie, Annie! It is I—Stephen.
Open to me. I am not dead. You
need not fear me. I was always so
fond of you.”