I HAVE heard some great news to-day, which is yet unknown to most of the household, though they must guess, of course, that something is going to happen, from seeing the preparations that are making. 'Twas from no good will of mine that I knew it either, for I hate secrets.
After breakfast, Mother Gertrude requested Amice and myself to help her put in order some tapestry. We followed her to the east end of the house, where are certain large apartments which have never been opened in my time. Mother Gertrude unlocked the door which separates them from the rest of the house and threw it open. The first room we entered was quite dark, save for certain rays which streamed through small cracks and crannies in the shutters, and showed us long lines of dust, while a moldy, close smell issued from the open door.
"Phew!" exclaimed Mother Gertrude. "Amice, child, step in and open the shutters."
Amice shrank back a little.
"Let me do it," said I; and without waiting to be told, as I suppose I should, I went in, and after a little fumbling succeeded in finding and drawing the bolt, and opening not only the shutters, but the casement, letting in the sweet light and air.
"Suppose we open all the casements and give the place a thorough airing," said I.
"Yes, do, my child," answered Mother Gertrude. "Amice, can't you help her, and not leave her to break all her finger nails." For all the time, Amice had stood still at the door.
"I waited to be told what to do," answered Amice, coloring as red as fire, and then coming forward without another word, she began to help me open the rooms. There were three, of good size and lofty, besides a closet or oratory with an altar and crucifix. The furniture had been good, though somewhat scanty, but it was battered and moth-eaten, and the floors were thick with dust, while something—the wind, I suppose—had swept into curious waves and traces, as though somebody had been pacing back and forth with a long gown on. I remarked on this appearance to Amice.
"Aye," said Mother Gertrude, overhearing me—and looking sadly about her, "If a ghost ever walked—Many a weary hour she paced these floors, poor thing, softly singing to herself, or repeating Psalms."
"Who, dear mother?" I ventured to ask.