"What! was it a real ghost story, though? and did it happen to you?"
"You shall hear."
It was the thirty-first of October, All Hallow's Eve, a ghostly season, as every one properly posted in ghostly lore knows very well. A dreary storm of rain and wind was beating against the windows; but the fire on the old sitting-room hearth was burning warmly, the candles were not yet lighted, our father, the pastor, had not returned from a sick call, and with a delightful show of expectation we all gathered around the fire to hear Aunt Madeleine's ghost story.
It is now more years than I care to remember, she began, since we moved from the old forest of St. Mary's, up to the town of W.
Our family then consisted of our grandmother, Mrs. Hawkins, my sister Alice (your mother, dears), and two old family servants, Hector and his wife Cassandra.
That removal was the first great memorable epoch in my own and my sister's lives. We had never seen anything approaching nearer to a town than the little hamlet of St. Inigoes, and though W. was just exactly the drowsiest old city that ever slept through centuries and slept itself to death, yet to us, coming from the forest farm, it seemed a very miracle of life, enterprise and excitement.
We reached our home in Church street just about the last of October.
At first the change was delightful to us. We were never weary of exploring the streets and reading the signs, and—as we gained confidence and ventured into the shops—of examining the marvelous treasures of silks and satins and laces and jewelry and china, and "all that's bought and sold in city marts."
I recall the first six months of our residence in W., while the novelty still lasted and all was beautiful illusion, and think that no mere worldly event can ever give me such true pleasure again.
Ally and I told each other over and over again that "the city was the true Arcadia!" that there all poetry, romance and adventure was to be found, and that it was like scenes in the "Arabian Nights."