Miss Grief and Other Stories by Constance Fenimore Woolson Read Free Book Online Page B

the hotel on land belonging to the Community; and, obeying the fascination which earth’s native medicines exercise over all earth’s children, we immediately started in search of the nauseous spring. The road wound over the hill, past one of the apple-orchards, where the girls were gathering the red fruit, and then down a little declivity where the track branched off to the Community coal-mine; then a solitary stretch through the thick woods, a long hill with a curve, and at the foot a little dell with a patch of meadow, a brook, and a log-house with overhanging roof, a forlorn house unpainted and desolate. There was not even the blue door which enlivened many of the Community dwellings. “This looks like the huts of the Black Forest,” said Erminia. “Who would have supposed that we should find such an antique in Ohio!”
    â€œI am confident it was built by the M.B.’s,” I replied. “They tramped, you know, extensively through the State, burying axes and leaving every now and then a mastodon behind them.”
    â€œWell, if the Mound-Builders selected this site they showed good taste,” said Erminia, refusing, in her afternoon indolence, the argumentum nonsensicum with which we were accustomed to enliven our conversation. It was, indeed, a lovely spot,—the little meadow, smooth and bright as green velvet, the brook chattering over the pebbles, and the hills, gay in red and yellow foliage, rising abruptly on all sides. After some labor we swung open the great gate and entered the yard, crossed the brook on a mossy plank, and followed the path through the grass towards the lonely house. An old shepherd-dog lay at the door of a dilapidated shed, like a block-house, which had once been a stable; he did not bark, but, rising slowly, came along beside us,—a large, gaunt animal that looked at us with such melancholy eyes that Erminia stooped to pat him. Ermine had a weakness for dogs; she herself owned a wild beast of the dog kind that went by the name of the “Emperor Trajan”; and, accompanied by this dignitary, she was accustomed to stroll up the avenues of C——, lost in maiden meditations.
    We drew near the house and stepped up on the sunken piazza, but no signs of life appeared. The little loophole windows were pasted over with paper, and the plank door had no latch or handle. I knocked, but no one came. “Apparently it is a haunted house, and that dog is the spectre,” I said, stepping back.
    â€œKnock three times,” suggested Ermine; “that is what they always do in ghost-stories.”
    â€œTry it yourself. My knuckles are not cast-iron.”
    Ermine picked up a stone and began tapping on the door. “Open sesame,” she said, and it opened.
    Instantly the dog slunk away to his block-house and a woman confronted us, her dull face lighting up as her eyes ran rapidly over our attire from head to foot. “Is there a sulphur-spring here?” I asked. “We would like to try the water.”
    â€œYes, it’s here fast enough in the back hall. Come in, ladies; I’m right proud to see you. From the city, I suppose?”
    â€œFrom C——,” I answered; “we are spending a few days in the Community.”
    Our hostess led the way through the little hall, and throwing open a back door pulled up a trap in the floor, and there we saw the spring,—a shallow well set in stones, with a jar of butter cooling in its white water. She brought a cup, and we drank. “Delicious,” said Ermine. “The true, spoiled-egg flavor! Four cups is the minimum allowance, Dora.”
    â€œI reckon it’s good for the insides,” said the woman, standing with arms akimbo and staring at us. She was a singular creature, with large black eyes, Roman nose, and a mass of black hair tightly knotted on the top of her head, but pinched and gaunt; her yellow forehead was wrinkled with a fixed frown, and