The Old Maid looked slowly round with a slight gestureof one hand and a finger of the other upon her lip，appearing more shadow-like than ever in the obscurityof the porch. But again she lifted the hammer， and gave，this time， a single rap. Could it be that a footstep wasnow heard coming down the staircase of the old mansionwhich all conceived to have been so long untenanted？
Slowly， feebly， yet heavily， like the pace of an aged andinfirm person， the step approached， more distinct onevery downward stair， till it reached the portal. The barfell on the inside； the door was opened. One upwardglance toward the church-spire， whence the sunshine hadjust faded， was the last that the people saw of the OldMaid in the Winding-Sheet.
“Who undid the door？” asked many.
This question， owing to the depth of shadow beneath theporch， no one could satisfactorily answer. Two or three agedmen， while protesting against an inference which might bedrawn， affirmed that the person within was a negro andbore a singular resemblance to old C.sar， formerly a slavein the house， but freed by death some thirty years before.
“Her summons has waked up a servant of the old family，”
said one， half seriously.
“Let us wait here，” replied another； “more guests willknock at the door anon. But the gate of the graveyardshould be thrown open.”
Twilight had overspread the town before the crowdbegan to separate or the comments on this incidentwere exhausted. One after another was wending his wayhomeward， when a coach—no common spectacle in thosedays—drove slowly into the street. It was an old-fashionedequipage， hanging close to the ground， with arms on thepanels， a footman behind and a grave， corpulent coachmanseated high in front， the whole giving an idea of solemnstate and dignity. There was something awful in the heavyrumbling of the wheels.
The coach rolled down the street， till， coming to thegateway of the deserted mansion， it drew up， and thefootman sprang to the ground.
“Whose grand coach is this？” asked a very inquisitivebody.
The footman made no reply， but ascended the steps ofthe old house， gave three taps with the iron hammer， andreturned to open the coach door. An old man possessedof the heraldic lore so common in that day examined theshield of arms on the panel.
“Azure， a lion’s head erased， between three flowers deluce，” said he， then whispered the name of the family towhom these bearings belonged. The last inheritor of itshonors was recently dead， after a long residence amidthe splendor of the British court， where his birth andwealth had given him no mean station. “He left no child，”
continued the herald， “and these arms， being in a lozenge，betoken that the coach appertains to his widow.”
Further disclosures， perhaps， might have been madehad not the speaker been suddenly struck dumb by thestern eye of an ancient lady who thrust forth her headfrom the coach， preparing to descend. As she emerged thepeople saw that her dress was magnificent， and her figuredignified in spite of age and infirmity—a stately ruin，but with a look at once of pride and wretchedness. Herstrong and rigid features had an awe about them unlikethat of the white Old Maid， but as of something evil. Shepassed up the steps， leaning on a gold-headed cane. Thedoor swung open as she ascended， and the light of a torchglittered on the embroidery of her dress and gleamed onthe pillars of the porch. After a momentary pause， a glancebackward and then a desperate effort， she went in.
The decipherer of the coat-of-arms had ventured upthe lower step， and， shrinking back immediately， pale andtremulous， affirmed that the torch was held by the veryimage of old C.sar.
“But such a hideous grin，” added he， “was never seen onthe face of mortal man， black or white. It will haunt metill my dying-day.”
Meantime， the coach had wheeled round with a
prodigious clatter on the pavement and rumbled up thestreet， disappearing in the twilight， while the ear stilltracked its course. Scarcely was it gone when the peoplebegan to question whether the coach and attendants，the ancient lady， the spectre of old C.sar and the OldMaid herself were not all a strangely-combined delusionwith some dark purport in its mystery. The whole townwas astir， so that， instead of dispersing， the crowdcontinually increased， and stood gazing up at the windowsof the mansion， now silvered by the brightening moon.
The elders， glad to indulge the narrative propensity ofage， told of the long-faded splendor of the family， theentertainments they had given and the guests， the greatestof the land， and even titled and noble ones from abroad，who had passed beneath that portal. These graphicreminiscences seemed to call up the ghosts of those towhom they referred. So strong was the impression onsome of the more imaginative hearers that two or threewere seized with trembling fits at one and the samemoment， protesting that they had distinctly heard threeother raps of the iron knocker.
“Impossible！” exclaimed others. “See！ The moon shinesbeneath the porch， and shows every part of it except inthe narrow shade of that pillar. There is no one there.”
“Did not the door open？” whispered one of thesefanciful persons.
“Didst thou see it too？” said his companion， in a startledtone.