“Was the spinning woman you, Miss Thusa?” whispered she, afraid of the sound of her own voice; “and did you see it with your own eyes?”
“Hush, foolish child!” said Miss Thusa, resuming her natural tone; “ask me no questions, or I’ll tell you no tales. ’Tis time for the yellow bird to be in its nest. Hark! I hear your mother calling me, and ’tis long past your bed-time. Come.”
And Miss Thusa, sweeping her long right arm around the child, bore her shrinking and resisting towards the nursery room.
“Please, Miss Thusa,” she pleaded, “don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me in the dark. I’m not one bit sleepy—I never shall go to sleep—I’m afraid of the worm-eaten man.”
“I thought the child had more sense,” exclaimed the oracle. “I didn’t think she was such a little goose as this,” continued she, depositing her between the nice warm blankets. “Nobody ever troubles good little girls—the holy angels take care of them. There, good night—shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
“Please don’t take the light,” entreated Helen, “only just leave it till I get to sleep; I’ll blow it out as soon as I’m asleep.”
“I guess you will,” said Miss Thusa, “when you get a chance.” Then catching up the lamp, she shot out of the room, repeating to herself, “Poor child! She does hate the dark so! That was a powerful story, to be sure. I shouldn’t wonder if she dreamed about it. I never did see a child that listens to anything as she does. It’s a pleasure to amuse her. Little monkey! She really acts as if ’twas all true. I know that’s my master piece; that is the reason I’m so choice of it. It isn’t every one that can tell a story as I can—that’s certain. It’s my gift—I mustn’t be proud of it. God gives some persons one talent, and some another. We must all give an account of them at last. I hope ’twill never be said I’ve hid mine in a napkin.”
Such was the tenor of Miss Thusa’s thoughts as she wended her way down stairs. Had she imagined half the misery she was entailing on this singularly susceptible and imaginative child, instead of exulting in her gift, she would have mourned over its influence, in dust and ashes. The fears which Helen expressed, and which she believed would prove as evanescent as they were unreal, were a grateful incense to her genius, which she delighted with unconscious cruelty in awakening. She had an insane passion for relating these dreadful legends, whose indulgence seemed necessary to her existence, and the happiness of the narrator was commensurate with the credulity of the auditor. Without knowing it, she was a vampire, feeding on the life-blood of a young and innocent heart, and drying up the fountain of its joys.
Helen listened till the last sound of Miss Thusa’s footsteps died away on the ear, then plunging deeper into the bed, drew the blankets over head and ears, and lay immovable as a snow-drift, with the chill dew of terror oozing from every pore.
“I’m not a good girl,” said the child to herself, “and God won’t send the angels down to take care of me to-night. I played going to meeting with my dolls last Sunday, and Miss Thusa says that was breaking the commandments. I’ll say my prayers over again, and ask God to forgive me.”