“What an absurd ghost!” thought Mr. Wagget, in a pleasing terror, as he examined and pondered over the arrangement.
“It only shows that change of place won’t do,” said the rector. “Consider this, however,” he resumed, after an interval consumed in search of consolation, “these manifestations, and very characteristic they are, if we assume they come from my poor friend, are made in furtherance of what she conceives your interests, in the spirit of that love which she manifested for you all her life, and you may be well assured they will never be pushed to such a point as to hurt you.”
William got on the bed, and untied his stick, which on his way home he broke to pieces, as a thing bewitched, in a nervous paroxysm, and flung into the little brook that runs by Revington.
At breakfast, Miss Wagget asked of her brother,—
“Did you hear the noise at the hat-stand in the hall last night? Your hat was knocked down, and rolled all across the hall.” (The parson and William glanced at one another here.) “It was certainly that horrid gray cat that comes in at the lobby window.”
At mention of the gray cat the remembrance of poor Aunt Dinah’s simile struck William.
“By Jove! my stick was at the hat-stand,” exclaimed he.
“Your stick? but this was a hat,” replied Miss Wagget, who did not see why he should be so floored by the recollection of his stick.
“Ha! your stick? so it was—was it?” exclaimed Doctor Wagget, with a sudden awe, equally puzzling.
And staring at her brother, and then again at William, Miss Wagget suffered the water from the tea-urn to overflow her cup and her saucer in succession.