Mr. Whitelaw seemed scarcely
to relish the question; but after one of his meditative pauses laughed
his wife's inquiry to scorn, and told her that there were no ghosts at
Wyncomb except the ghosts of dead rats that had ravaged the
granaries--and certainly _they_ seemed to rise from their graves in spite
of poison and traps, cats and ferrets--and that, as to anything that had
been done in the house in days gone by, he had never heard tell that his
ancestors had ever done anything but eat and drink and sleep, and save
money from year's end to year's end; and a hard time they'd had of it to
pay their way and put something by, in the face of all the difficulties
that surround the path of a farmer.
If Ellen Whitelaw's life had been as the lives of happier women, full of
small daily cares and all-engrossing domestic interests, the memory of
that unearthly scream would no doubt have faded out of her mind ere long,
instead of remaining, as it did, a source of constant perplexity to her.
But there was no interest, no single charm in her life. There was nothing
in the world left for her to care for. The fertile flats around Wyncomb
Farmhouse bounded her universe. Day by day she rose to perform the same
monotonous duties, sustained by no lofty aim, cheered by neither
friendship nor affection; for she could not teach herself to feel
anything warmer than toleration for her daily companion, Mrs.
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