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。

“Too　much　noise；　G