817 C. From the Proceedings S.P.R., vol. ix. p. 35. Mrs. Hadselle sent at the same time as the above another narrative, of which she said:-

I send you with this a bit of experience which I had years ago - so long ago, indeed, as the time Dr. Holland edited the Springfield Republican. He wrote me that the "Warning" was copied from Maine to California, and that he received many letters asking if it was authentic. To this he could safely reply, as I was an old-time contributor to that and other leading journals. A local paper lately copied it. Many of the then witnesses have, with Dr. Holland and my darling Eddie (Kleber Loomis Hadselle), gone over to the "great majority," but there are several still living who remember the episode, and no one of my acquaintances doubts or thinks the sketch overdrawn.

[The account is taken from the Berkshire County Eagle, May 10th, 1888, Pittsfield, Mass., and is there headed "The Unspoken Warning - A Mother's Experience." As above implied, the account itself is nearly contemporary with the incident, being here quoted from a reprint, which the author accepts as correct:- ]

One bitter cold day in winter a merry party of us, nestled down under furry robes, went to meet an appointment with a friend living a few miles distant, with whom we were to spend the afternoon and in the evening attend a concert to be held near by. The sleighing was delightful, the air keen and inspiriting, the host and hostess genial as the crackling fires in the grates, and the invited guests, of whom there were many besides ourselves, in that peculiar visiting trim which only old-time friends, long parted, can enjoy. Restraint was thrown aside; we cracked jokes; we chattered like magpies, and not a little of the coming concert, which promised a rare treat to our unsophisticated ears. All went merry as a marriage bell, and merrier than some, till just before tea, when I was seized with a sudden and unaccountable desire to go home, accompanied by a dread or fear of something, I knew not what, which made the return appear, not a matter of choice, but a thing imperative. I tried to reason it away, to revive anticipations of the concert; I thought of the disappointment it would be to those who came with me to give it up, and running over in my mind the condition in which things were left at home, could find no ground for alarm.

For many years a part of the house had been rented to a trusty family; our children were often rocked in the same cradle, and half of the time ate at the same table; locks and bolts were things unused, and in deed as in word we were neighbours. In their care had been left a boy of ten years, the only one of the family remaining at home, who knew that when he returned from school he was expected to bring in wood and kindlings for the morning fire, take supper alone, or with little Clara E., as he chose, and otherwise pass the time as he pleased, only that he must not go into the street to play, or on to the pond to skate. He had been left many times in this way, and had never given occasion for the slightest uneasiness; still, as this nameless fear grew upon me, it took the form of a conviction that danger of some sort threatened this beloved child.

I was rising to go and ask Mr. A. to take me home, when some one said, "You are very pale; are you ill?" "No," I answered, and dropping back in the chair, told them how strangely I had been exercised for the last few minutes; adding, "I really must go home." There was a perfect chorus of voices against it, and for a little time I was silenced, though not convinced. Some one laid the matter before Mr. A., who replied, "Nonsense; Eddie is a good boy to mind, will do nothing in our absence that he would not do if we were there, and is enjoying himself well at this moment, I'll warrant." This answer was brought to me in triumph, and I resolved to do as they said, "not to think about it." But at tea my trembling hand almost refused to carry food to my lips, and I found it utterly impossible to swallow a mouthful. A death-like chill crept over me, and I knew that every eye was on me as I left the room. Mr. A. rose, saying in a changed voice and without ceremony, "Make haste; bring the horse round, we must go right away.

I never saw her in such a state before; there is something in it." He followed me to the parlour, but before he could speak I was pleading as for dear life that not a moment be lost in starting for home. "I know," said I, "it is not all imagination, and whether it is or not I shall certainly die if this dreadful incubus is not removed shortly".

All was now confusion; the tea-table deserted, the meal scarce tasted; and my friends, alarmed as much at my looks as at my words, were as anxious to hurry me off as they had been before to detain me. To me those terrible moments seemed hours, yet I am assured that not more than half-an-hour elapsed from the time my fears first found expression before we were on the road toward home. A horse somewhat noted for fleetness was before us, and with only two in the cutter - the rest stayed to concert, and made Mr. A. promise that if nothing had happened we would return - went over the road at a rapid pace. I knew from the frequent repetition of a peculiar signal that the beast was being urged to his best, yet I grew sick with impatience at the restraint. I wanted to fly. All this while my fears had taken no definite shape. I only knew that the child was in danger, and felt impelled to hurry to the rescue. Only once was the silence broken in that three-mile journey, and that was when the house was in full view.

I said, "Thank God, the house is not on fire." "That was my own thought," said Mr. A., but there was no slackening of speed.

On nearing home a cheerful light was glimmering from Mrs. E.'s window; before the vehicle had fairly stopped we were clear of it, and opening the door, said in the same breath, "Where's Eddie?" "Eddie? why, he was here a little while ago," answered Mrs. E., pleasantly striving to dissipate the alarm she saw written on our countenances. "He ate supper with the children, and played awhile at marbles; then spoke of Libby Rose having a new picture book, and that he wanted to see it. You'll find him over there." With swift steps Mr. A. crossed the street to the place mentioned, but returned with "He has not been there." Eddie was remarkably fond of skating, and my next thought was that he had been tempted to disobedience. I said calmly, "We will go to the pond." I was perfectly collected; I could have worked all night without fatigue with the nerves in that state of tension; but Mr. A. said, "No, you must go in and lie down. Eddie is safe enough, somewhere about the village. I'll go and find him." But there was nothing in the tone as in the words to reassure me.

As he spoke he crossed the hall to our own room and turned the knob. The door was locked. What could that mean? Eddie was either on the inside or had taken the key away with him. Mr. A. ran round to a window with a broken spring which could be opened from the outside. It went up with a clang, but a dense volume of smoke drove him back. After an instant another attempt was made, and this time, on a lounge directly under the window, he stumbled on the insensible form of little Eddie, smothered in smoke. Limp and apparently lifeless, he was borne into the fresh cold air, and after some rough handling was restored to consciousness.

Eddie said, on returning from school he made a good fire, and as the wood was snowy thought he would put it in the oven to dry; something he had never done before. Then on leaving Mrs. E.'s room he went in for an apple before going to see Libby Rose's picture book, and it seemed so nice and warm he thought he would lie down awhile. He could give no explanation as to what prompted him to turn the key: it was the first and last time; but this could have made no difference in the result, for no one would have discovered the smoke in time to save his life. The wood in the oven was burned to ashes, but as the doors were closed there was no danger of falling embers setting the house on fire; and had we stayed to the concert everything would have been as when we left, except that little Eddie's voice would never more have made music for our ears. Every one said that with a delay of five or even three minutes we should have been too late.

(Signed) Mrs. C. A. C. Hadselle.

In reply to inquiries, Mrs. Hadselle informed Dr. Hodgson that the event took place about 1854, Eddie being then nine or ten years old. Mr. A. is no longer living, but the lady at whose house the party met, on being asked by Mrs. Hadselle what she could remember of the circumstances, wrote:-

Albany, N. Y., January 6th, 1891.

I remember distinctly the incident described by Mrs. Hadselle in her sketch, "An Unspoken Warning." It was at my house that the little party gathered for the old-fashioned afternoon visit and tea. I remember well her strange condition, arising from anxiety over the child, which had been left at home. The statement made by her I believe to be true. M. W. Rogers.