While I paced softly on，the last sound I expected to hear in so still a region，a laugh，struck my ear. It was a curious laugh; distinct，formal，mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased，only for an instant; it began again，louder: for at first，though distinct，it was very low. It passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber; though it originated but in one，and I could have pointed out the door whence the accents issued.

"Mrs. Fairfax!" I called out: for I now heard her descending the great stairs. "Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?"

"Some of the servants，very likely," she answered: "perhaps Grace poole."

"Did you hear it?" I again inquired.

"Yes，plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.

Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently noisy together."

The laugh was repeated in its low，syllabic tone，and terminated in an odd murmur.

"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as tragic，as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and，but that it was high noon，and that no circumstance of ghostliness acpanied the curious cachinnation; but that neither scene nor season favoured fear，I should have been superstitiously afraid. However，the event showed me I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.

The door nearest me opened，and a servant came out,- a woman of between thirty and forty; a set，square-made figure，red-haired，and with a hard，plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.