By Saki
“My aunt will be down presently， Mr. Nuttel，” said a veryself-possessed young lady of fifteen； “in the meantime youmust try and put up with me.”
Framton Nuttel endeavoured to say the correct somethingwhich should duly flatter the niece of the moment withoutunduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately hedoubted more than ever whether these formal visits on asuccession of total strangers would do much towards helpingthe nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
“I know how it will be，” his sister had said when he waspreparing to migrate to this rural retreat； “you will buryyourself down there and not speak to a living soul， and yournerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just giveyou letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Someof them， as far as I can remember， were quite nice.”
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton， the lady towhom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction，came into the nice division.
“Do you know many of the people round here？” asked theniece， when she judged that they had had sufficient silentcommunion.
“Hardly a soul，” said Framton. “My sister was staying here，at the rectory， you know， some four years ago， and she gaveme letters of introduction to some of the people here.”
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt？”pursuedthe self-possessed young lady.
“Only her name and address，” admitted the caller. He waswondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married orwidowed state. An undefinable something about the roomseemed to suggest masculine habitation.
“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago，”said thechild； “that would be since your sister’s time.”
“Her tragedy？” asked Framton； somehow in this restfulcountry spot tragedies seemed out of place.
“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open onan October afternoon，” said the niece， indicating a large Frenchwindow that opened on to a lawn.
“It is quite warm for the time of the year，” said Framton； “buthas that window got anything to do with the tragedy？”
“Out through that window， three years ago to a day， herhusband and her two young brothers went off for their day’sshooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to theirfavourite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfedin a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wetsummer， you know， and places that were safe in other yearsgave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were neverrecovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child’svoice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringlyhuman. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come backsome day， they and the little brown spaniel that was lost withthem， and walk in at that window just as they used to do. Thatis why the window is kept open every evening till it is quitedusk. Poor dear aunt， she has often told me how they wentout， her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm，and Ronnie， her youngest brother， singing ‘Bertie， why do youbound？’ as he always did to tease her， because she said it goton her nerves. Do you know， sometimes on still， quiet eveningslike this， I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk inthrough that window—”