I did not much like the office. I felt a remarkable
repugnance to my godmother, but my worthy aunts insisted so much
that I should ingratiate myself with one who had so much to leave
that I could not but comply. The visitor hobbled up the broad
oaken stairs actively enough, propped on my arm and her ivory
crutch. The room never had looked more genial and pretty, with its
brisk fire, modern furniture, and the gay French paper on the
walls. "A nice room, my dear, and I ought to be much obliged to
you for it, since my maid tells me it is yours," said her ladyship;
"but I am pretty sure you repent your generosity to me, after all
those ghost stories, and tremble to think of a strange bed and
chamber, eh?" I made some commonplace reply. The old lady arched
her eyebrows. "Where have they put you, child?" she asked; "in
some cock-loft of the turrets, eh? or in a lumber-room--a regular
ghost-trap? I can hear your heart beating with fear this moment.
You are not fit to be alone." I tried to call up my pride, and
laugh off the accusation against my courage, all the more, perhaps,
because I felt its truth.
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