128 A NIGHT VISITANT. 



players have had, and in some cases may still have, the power 

 to create. 



At the open window of her solitary kitchen, half lighted by 

 this October moon, half by a flaring candle, sits All-work 

 Deborah at her tea. Why, suddenly arrested in its prophetic 

 orbit, does the tea-cup, in the very turn of fortune, drop, 

 shivered, from her shaking hand ? Why does her tallowy dip, 

 dip at once into darkness ? What is the wailing cry that 

 salutes her startled ear ? Is it the voice of a screech-owl from 

 the barn, or the squeal of a mouse from the cupboard ? No I 

 It is the shriek of some gloomy night-flier, which, entering at 

 the casement, has put out the candle, and deposits its dusky 

 form upon the snow-white dresser. Deborah can only dimly 

 discern it by help of the moon. " Oh, for a light ! My sweet- 

 heart for a light !" she inwardly ejaculates ; but the evening 

 is warm, the grate is cold, and the damsel dares not stir. 



At length, however, in some way or another whether by 

 aid of embers or of lucifer, not Deborah herself could ever tell 

 the candle is relit ; she could only testify that its flame burnt 

 blue. With trembling hand she places it on the dresser, to 

 " show up " the characters of her alarming visitant, who ever 

 and anon continues to salute her with its mournful wail. 



Deborah is a country girl, and has therefore learnt, of course, 

 to distinguish betwixt a butterfly and a black beetle; and 

 she thought, till this awful moment, that she knew, quite as 

 well, the difference between a brown moth and a spirit, black, 



