Once， it is said， she affrighted a bridal-party with her palepresence， appearing suddenly in the illuminated hall justas the priest was uniting a false maid to a wealthy manbefore her lover had been dead a year. Evil was the omento that marriage. Sometimes she stole forth by moonlightand visited the graves of venerable integrity and weddedlove and virgin innocence， and every spot where the ashesof a kind and faithful heart were mouldering. Over thehillocks of those favored dead would she stretch out herarms with a gesture as if she were scattering seeds， andmany believed that she brought them from the garden ofParadise， for the graves which she had visited were greenbeneath the snow and covered with sweet flowers fromApril to November. Her blessing was better than a holyverse upon the tombstone. Thus wore away her long， sad，peaceful and fantastic life till few were so old as she， andthe people of later generations wondered how the deadhad ever been buried or mourners had endured their griefwithout the Old Maid in the Winding-Sheet. Still yearswent on， and still she followed funerals and was not yetsummoned to her own festival of death.
One afternoon the great street of the town was all alivewith business and bustle， though the sun now gildedonly the upper half of the church-spire， having left thehousetops and loftiest trees in shadow. The scene wascheerful and animated in spite of the sombre shadebetween the high brick buildings. Here were pompousmerchants in white wigs and laced velvet， the bronzedfaces of sea-captains， the foreign garb and air of SpanishCreoles， and the disdainful port of natives of Old England，all contrasted with the rough aspect of one or two backsettlersnegotiating sales of timber from forests whereaxe had never sounded. Sometimes a lady passed， swellingroundly forth in an embroidered petticoat， balancingher steps in high-heeled shoes and courtesying with loftygrace to the punctilious obeisances of the gentlemen.
The life of the town seemed to have its very centre notfar from an old mansion that stood somewhat back fromthe pavement， surrounded by neglected grass， with astrange air of loneliness rather deepened than dispelledby the throng so near it. Its site would have been suitablyoccupied by a magnificent Exchange or a brick blocklettered all over with various signs， or the large house itselfmight have made a noble tavern with the “King’s Arms”
swinging before it and guests in every chamber， instead ofthe present solitude. But， owing to some dispute about theright of inheritance， the mansion had been long withouta tenant， decaying from year to year and throwing thestately gloom of its shadow over the busiest part of thetown.
Such was the scene， and such the time， when a figureunlike any that have been described was observed at adistance down the street.
“I espy a strange sail yonder，” remarked a Liverpoolcaptain； “that woman in the long white garment.”
The sailor seemed much struck by the object， as wereseveral others who at the same moment caught a glimpse ofthe figure that had attracted his notice. Almost immediatelythe various topics of conversation gave place to speculationsin an undertone on this unwonted occurrence.
“Can there be a funeral so late this afternoon？” inquiredsome.
They looked for the signs of death at every door—thesexton， the hearse， the assemblage of black-clad relatives，all that makes up the woeful pomp of funerals. They raisedtheir eyes， also， to the sun-gilt spire of the church， andwondered that no clang proceeded from its bell， whichhad always tolled till now when this figure appeared in thelight of day. But none had heard that a corpse was to beborne to its home that afternoon， nor was there any tokenof a funeral except the apparition of the Old Maid in theWinding-Sheet.
“What may this portend？” asked each man of hisneighbor.
All smiled as they put the question， yet with a certaintrouble in their eyes， as if pestilence， or some other widecalamity， were prognosticated by the untimely intrusionamong the living of one whose presence had always beenassociated with death and woe. What a comet is to theearth was that sad woman to the town. Still she movedon， while the hum of surprise was hushed at her approach，and the proud and the humble stood aside that her whitegarment might not wave against them. It was a long， looserobe of spotless purity. Its wearer appeared very old， pale，emaciated and feeble， yet glided onward without theunsteady pace of extreme age. At one point of her coursea little rosy boy burst forth from a door and ran with openarms toward the ghostly woman， seeming to expect a kissfrom her bloodless lips. She made a slight pause， fixing hereye upon him with an expression of no earthly sweetness，so that the child shivered and stood awestruck ratherthan affrighted while the Old Maid passed on. Perhapsher garment might have been polluted even by an infant’stouch； perhaps her kiss would have been death to thesweet boy within the year.
“She is but a shadow，” whispered the superstitious. “Thechild put forth his arms and could not grasp her robe.”
The wonder was increased when the Old Maid passedbeneath the porch of the deserted mansion， ascendedthe moss-covered steps， lifted the iron knocker and gavethree raps. The people could only conjecture that someold remembrance， troubling her bewildered brain， hadimpelled the poor woman hither to visit the friends of heryouth—all gone from their home long since and for everunless their ghosts still haunted it， fit company for the OldMaid in the Winding-Sheet.
An elderly man approached the steps， and， reverentlyuncovering his gray locks， essayed to explain the matter.
“None， madam，” said he， “have dwelt in this house thesefifteen years agone—no， not since the death of old ColonelFenwicke， whose funeral you may remember to havefollowed. His heirs， being ill-agreed among themselves，have let the mansion-house go to ruin.”