At the conclusion of this miraculous legend, Iinquired of mine host whether the picture still remained in thechamber over our heads; but Mr. Tiffany informed me that it hadlong since been removed, and was supposed to be hidden in someout-of-the-way corner of the New England Museum. Perchance somecurious antiquary may light upon it there, and, with theassistance of Mr. Howorth, the picture cleaner, may supply a notunnecessary proof of the authenticity of the facts here set down.During the progress of the story a storm had been gatheringabroad, and raging and rattling so loudly in the upper regions ofthe Province House, that it seemed as if all the old governorsand great men were running riot above stairs while Mr. BelaTiffany babbled of them below. In the course of generations, whenmany people have lived and died in an ancient house, thewhistling of the wind through its crannies, and the creaking ofits beams and rafters, become strangely like the tones of thehuman voice, or thundering laughter, or heavy footsteps treadingthe deserted chambers. It is as if the echoes of half a centurywere revived. Such were the ghostly sounds that roared andmurmured in our ears when I took leave of the circle round thefireside of the Province House, and plunging down the door steps,fought my way homeward against a drifting snow-storm.