“I wonder—I wish some one would tell me what it means,” she continued, looking wistfully in the glass. “How am I to get these lines from my forehead, these, these—”
She checked herself suddenly, gasping for breath. Her eyes were fixed wildly on the mirror as if she had seen a basilisk there; her white lips began to tremble; and uttering a low cry, she dashed her clenched hand against the glass, shivering it to a thousand fragments.
“I have done it—I have done it!” she cried, with an insane glare of the eyes, as she held out her clenched hand, all crimson with drops of blood, for them to look upon. “She crossed my path once, twice, again! She looks like a witch now; but it’s her—I know her! I have crushed her, do you see?”
As she cried out in this exultant fashion, Elsie’s glance fell upon the bay-window, and instantly the breath was hushed on her lips.
“There, there,” she cried, “I killed her, but she is there yet!”
They followed her eyes, and there, close by the old-fashioned bay-window, peering into the room, stood a strange woman, gaunt and witch-like, both in face and figure. Her sharp, wizen face was buried in a huge bonnet, which might have been in fashion twenty years before; and her soiled, even ragged, dress, was partially concealed by a shawl covered with a glowing pattern of red, green, orange, and blue, which was, possibly, in vogue at the time the bonnet was made. Still, both these articles seemed unworn till now. The blond and flowers on the bonnet were yellow and faded with time, not by use. Her shawl had evidently just been shaken out of its original folds. But for these articles of finery, her appearance would have been that of a beggar. It was now merely fantastic; for her gaiter-boots were not mates—one was buttoned, and the other laced with a bit of strong twine. She wore no stockings; and the fingers of one hand protruded through a soiled cotton glove, while the other was concealed under her shawl, evidently lacking a mate.
This fantastic figure stood close by the window, peering through with her keen, black eyes, that had the sharp glitter of a rattlesnake in them. But for this keen intelligence, she might have been taken for a common vagrant, on whom some kind old woman had bestowed charity from her hoard of old-fashioned garments. Instantly a cry broke from Catharine also, while the good old couple looked at each other in dismay.
No one spoke, but all remained paralyzed, white as death and gazing at each other. Catharine, usually so self-possessed, shook like an aspen, and Elsie crept to her side, seizing upon her garments for protection, a sure sign that her insanity, for a moment put off, had returned again, more fiercely than ever.
The strange creature at the window seemed rather amused by the consternation she had produced. Her face wrinkled into a laugh, and the glitter of her eyes seemed to strike fire upon the glass. After indulging herself a moment or two, she turned away, walking deliberately toward the front door.