And, as he spoke, he opened a small door at the southern end of the building, by means of a key which he selected from a bunch hanging beneath his apron.
"We never can get up that staircase, old gentleman," said the stranger, plunging his glances through the door-way.
"It's easier than you think—the stairs isn't so steep as they seem," returned the gardener; "and what's more," he added, doggedly, "you may either bring your burden this way, or leave it in the open air altogether."
"To be sure," chimed in the old woman: "if you don't choose to put the body in the very farthermost room from our end of the building, you may take it back again; and them stairs leads to the room that is farthermost off."
The stranger, who was a willing, good-natured man, and who seemed to study only how he should best perform a Christian duty, offered no farther remonstrance; but, respecting the prejudices of the old people, succeeded, by the aid of his co-operators, in conveying the bier up the staircase. On reaching the landing, the gardener opened the door of a room the shutters of which were closed; but through the chinks there streamed sufficient light to show that the apartment was a bed-chamber.
"Put it down there—on the carpet," said the gardener, who was anxious to terminate a proceeding by no means agreeable to him.
The bier was conveyed into the room, and placed upon the floor.
At that moment—while the gardener and his wife remained standing in the passage—the old man suddenly caught hold of the woman's arm with a convulsive grasp, and whispered in a hasty and hollow tone, "Hark! there's a footstep!"
"Yes—I hear it too!" returned his wife, in a scarcely audible tone: and, through very fright, she repeated, "There—there—there!" as often as the footstep fell—or seemed to fall—upon her ears.
"At the end of the passage——" murmured the gardener.