is this.  I have a little girl who is our youngest, who is just my husband’s idol.  She is a sweet little thing, though perhaps I should not say it.  Are you fond of children?  Then I almost feel sure you would think so too.  Not a moping child at all, or too clever, or anything to alarm one.  Well, you know, little Connie, since ever we came in, has seen an old lady walking about the house.”

“An old lady!” said Mary, with an involuntary smile.

“Oh, yes.  I laughed too, the first time.  I said it would be old Mrs. Prentiss, or perhaps the char-woman, or some old lady from the village that had been in the habit of coming in the former people’s time.  But the child got very angry.  She said it was a real lady.  She would not allow me to speak.  Then we thought perhaps it was some one who did not know the house was let, and had walked in to look at it; but nobody would go on coming like that with all the signs of a large family in the house.  And now the doctor says the child must be low, that the place perhaps doesn’t agree with her, and that we must send her away.  Now I ask you, how could I send little Connie away, the apple of her father’s eye?  I should have to go with her, of course, and how could the house get on without me?  Naturally we are very anxious.  And this afternoon she has seen her again, and sits there crying because she says the dear old lady looks so sad.  I just seized my hat, and walked out, to come to you and your friends at the vicarage, to see if you could help me.  Mrs. Bowyer may look down upon a city person,—­I don’t mind that; but she is a mother, and surely she would feel for a mother,” cried the poor lady vehemently, putting up her hands to her wet eyes.

“Oh, indeed, indeed she would!  I am sure now that she will call directly.  We did not know what a—­” Mary stopped herself in saying, “what a nice woman you are,” which she thought would be rude, though poor Mrs. Turner would have liked it.  But then she shook her head and added, “What could any of us do to help you?  I have never heard of any old lady.  There never was anything—­I know all about the house, everything that has ever happened, and Prentiss will tell you.  There is nothing of that kind,—­indeed, there is nothing.  You must have—­” But here Mary stopped again; for to suggest that a new family, a city family, should have brought an apparition of their own with them, was too ridiculous an idea to be entertained.

“Miss Vivian,” said Mrs. Turner, “will you come back with me and speak to the child?”

At this Mary faltered a little.  “I have never been there—­since the—­funeral,” she said.

The good woman laid a kind hand upon her shoulder, caressing and soothing.  “You were very fond of her—­in spite of the way she has used you?”

“Oh, how dare you, or any one, to speak of her so!  She used me as if I had been her dearest child.  She was more kind to me than a mother.  There is no one in the world like her!” Mary cried.