Helen and Arthur | Page 7

that can
tell a story as I can--that's certain. It's my gift--I mustn't be proud of it.
God gives some persons one talent, and some another. We must all give
an account of them at last. I hope 'twill never be said I've hid mine in a
napkin."
Such was the tenor of Miss Thusa's thoughts as she wended her way
down stairs. Had she imagined half the misery she was entailing on this
singularly susceptible and imaginative child, instead of exulting in her
gift, she would have mourned over its influence, in dust and ashes. The
fears which Helen expressed, and which she believed would prove as
evanescent as they were unreal, were a grateful incense to her genius,
which she delighted with unconscious cruelty in awakening. She had an
insane passion for relating these dreadful legends, whose indulgence
seemed necessary to her existence, and the happiness of the narrator
was commensurate with the credulity of the auditor. Without knowing
it, she was a vampire, feeding on the life-blood of a young and innocent
heart, and drying up the fountain of its joys.
Helen listened till the last sound of Miss Thusa's footsteps died away
on the ear, then plunging deeper into the bed, drew the blankets over
head and ears, and lay immovable as a snow-drift, with the chill dew of
terror oozing from every pore.
"I'm not a good girl," said the child to herself, "and God wont send the
angels down to take care of me to-night. I played going to meeting with
my dolls last Sunday, and Miss Thusa says that was breaking the
commandments. I'll say my prayers over again, and ask God to forgive
me."

Little Helen clasped her trembling hands under the bed-cover, and
repeated the Lord's Prayer as devoutly and reverentially as mortal lips
could utter it, but this act of devotion did not soothe her into slumber,
or banish the phantom that flitted round her couch. Finding it
impossible to breathe under the bed-cover any longer, and fearing to
die of suffocation, she slowly emerged from her burying-clothes till her
mouth came in contact with the cool, fresh air. She kept her eyes tightly
closed, that she might not see the darkness. She remembered hearing
her brother, who prided himself upon being a great mathematician, say
that if one counted ten, over and over again, till they were very tired,
they would fall asleep without knowing it. She tried this experiment,
but her heart kept time with its loud, quick beatings; so loud, so quick,
she sometimes mistook them for the skeleton foot-tramps of the
traveler. She was sure she heard a rustling in the chimney, a clattering
against the walls. She thought she felt a chilly breath sweep over her
cheek. At length, unable to endure the awful oppression of her fears,
she resolved to make a desperate attempt, and rush down stairs to her
mother, telling her she should die if she remained where she was. It was
horrible to go down alone in the darkness, it was more horrible to
remain in that haunted room. So, gathering up all her courage, she
jumped from the bed, and sought the door with her nervous, grasping
hands. Her little feet turned to ice, as their naked soles scampered over
the bare floor, but she did not mind that; she found the door, opened it,
and entered a long, dark passage, leading to the stairway. Then she
recollected that on the left of that passage there was a lumber-room,
running out slantingly to the eaves of the house, with a low entrance
into it, which was left without a door. This lumber-room had long been
her especial terror. Whenever she passed it, even in broad daylight, it
had a strange, mysterious appearance to her. The twilight shadows
always gathered there first and lingered last; she never walked by
it--she always ran with all her speed, as if the avenger of blood were
behind her. Now she would have flown if she could, but her long night
dress impeded her motions, and clung adhesively round her ankles.
Once she trod upon it, and thinking some one arrested her, she uttered a
loud scream and sprang forward through the door, which chanced to be
open. This door was directly at the head of the stairs, and it is not at all
surprising that Helen, finding it impossible to recover her equilibrium,

should pass over the steps in a quicker manner than she intended, swift
as her footsteps were. Down she went, tumbling and bumping, till she
came against the lower door with a force that burst it open, and in
rolled a yellow flannel ball into the centre of the illuminated apartment.
"My stars!" exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, starting up from the centre table,
and