Roses of Yesterday 477 



— she became rich as fast as her old lover became 

 poor. But all this cast a shadow on the house. 

 Sojourners would waken and hear throughout the 

 night some steady sound, a scratching of the cards, 

 a whirring of the spinning-wheel, the thump-thump 

 of the loom. Some said she never slept, and could 

 well grow rich when she worked all night. 



At last the woman who had stolen her lover — the 

 poor, sickly wife — died. The widower, burdened 

 hopelessly with debts, of course put up in her mem- 

 ory a fine headstone extolling her virtues. One 

 wakeful night, with a sentiment often found in such 

 natures, he went to the graveyard to view his proud 

 but unpaid-for possession. The grass deadened his 

 footsteps, and not till he reached the grave did there 

 rise up from the ground a tall, ghostly figure dressed 

 all in undyed gray wool of her own weaving. It was 

 Hannah Mason. " Hannah," whimpered the wid- 

 ower, trying to take her hand, — with equal thought 

 of her long bank account and his unpaid-for head- 

 stone, — "I never really loved any one but you." 

 She broke away from him with an indescribable ges- 

 ture of contempt and dignity, and went home. She 

 died suddenly four days later of pneumonia, either 

 from the shock or the damp midnight chill of the 

 graveyard. 



As months passed on travellers still came to the 

 tavern, and the story began to be whispered from 

 one to another that the house was haunted by the 

 ghost of Hannah Mason. Strange sounds were 

 heard at night from the garret where she had always 

 worked ; most plainly of all could be heard the 



