In the meantime, down below, in the kitchen of the old house, an excited group of colored people were talking. Aunt Polly was the centre of the group, and was relating, for the benefit of a new comer, her experience.
“I tell you, I done heerd that ghost-child agin. No, I didn’t see it, but I heerd it. I went ovah to the noth wing to put away that ar seed, as Mistah Jones told me to do, and while I was in that dark, lonesome bedroom above the pahlor, I heerd a child laugh, just as cleah and sweet as a bird; it sounded just right beside me. Oh, I was so skeered, I run and banged the doah after me. You don’t ketch this child goin’ in that pawt of the house no moah.”
“Aunt Polly,” asked one breathless listener, “wasn’t that the room whar the murdah was committed?”
“Yas, em; yes indeedy; the poor child was strangled in its sleep.”
Just then the voice of Mr. Jones was heard. “Here, hurry up in there; got too much to do to stand here gabbling. You know Mister Tom comes to-night; he wants this place to be shining.” Each one hurried off to her work. Aunt Polly, with a toss of her head and a sniff, proceeded leisurely to hang out the white curtains and bed-linen she was doing up against the arrival of her beloved Mistah Tom.
Dolores ate her dinner when she became hungry, gave some of it to the squirrel, and played on until the shadows in the attic indicated that evening was coming. Then she scrambled down and ran for home. She had time to brush the dust from her clothes, wash her face and hands, and lie down on the bed and fall asleep before Aunt Polly returned. By the time supper was ready and Dolores awakened, Aunt Polly had forgotten to ask about the school, in her eagerness to tell the important news that Mistah Tom was coming, and that she had heard the little ghost-girl’s laugh. And in a little while Dolores again had forgotten everything in the dreamless sleep which comes to tired children whether they are good or bad.
She awoke in the morning to find Aunt Polly already gone. Not long after, the little truant followed and, climbing her sylvan stairway, was soon in the delightful attic. She had explored all but one chest, that was pushed under the eaves. The other chests had yielded up a rich treasure, but she was curious to know what they all contained before she enjoyed the contents. So the little box was pushed close to the window, for it was growing dark in the attic. Dolores could hear the rumble of thunder, and the rain was beginning to patter on the shingles; she was not the least afraid of a storm, and proceeded leisurely with her task. The little chest was locked, but the key hung obligingly tied to one of the handles by a string. She unlocked it, and raised the lid. Who can say what loving, breaking heart looked last into that little box? For, carefully folded away, with dead roses in each dainty garment, was a little girl’s wardrobe, complete,—the finest linen undergarments, trimmed with delicate laces, little white silk clocked stockings, little heelless slippers of blue and red kid, all faded and spotted with age and mould; the loveliest little lace-trimmed dresses with short waists, puffed sleeves, and long skirts. Dolores hesitated a moment before examining them. On top of them was placed a note in a woman’s hand. She laid it aside and did not read it, until she had finished the examination. She opened it at last, and read, “This is the wardrobe of my dear little dead daughter Dolores.”
She closed the lid down gently, sprang up, and went to the window. “I must go home; I don’t like this old attic. I’ve been a wicked girl to come here. But how did that little dead girl come to have my name?”
She started to climb through the window, and saw that it was raining very hard; a steady downpour that promised to last all day. She returned to the chest, laid the note carefully aside, and again lifted out and unfolded each garment. How beautiful they were! Time had given them the delicate, mellow tint of old ivory. Dolores dearly enjoyed pretty clothes, and had possessed but few in her short life. She was charmed by their dainty quaintness.
“They look like they’d just fit me—I’m going to try on a suit—the lady would not care—I’ll be very careful of them.”