There was a poor intoxicated man lying on the mat.

Seeing the door open, he had staggered in while the family were at tea.

In some way he had hurt his hand, and stained the door with blood.

So there was nothing at all mysterious or supernatural in the affair, when it was once explained.
The poor creature was too helpless to be sent into the street; and Mr.
Clifford and Katinka carried him into the stable, and laid him upon a bed of sweet hay.
"I'm glad not to be a Hoojer," said Dotty, with a severe look at her Cousin Horace.

"You don't ever see such bad men in the State of Maine.
The whiskey is locked up; and I don't know as there _is_ any whiskey." "Down East is a great place, Dotty! Don't I wish I was a Yankee--I mean a 'Publican ?" "But you can't be, Horace," returned little Dotty, looking up at him with deep pity in her bright eyes; "you weren't born there.