And yet it was all so naive and unconscious; so girlish and simple.  She was so fresh in her views and ideas, and had so little thought of self, that in her companionship I forgot for the time all the troubles and mysteries which enmeshed the house; and I felt like a boy again. . . .

The most interesting of the sarcophagi were undoubtedly the three in Mr. Trelawny’s room.  Of these, two were of dark stone, one of porphyry and the other of a sort of ironstone.  These were wrought with some hieroglyphs.  But the third was strikingly different.  It was of some yellow-brown substance of the dominating colour effect of Mexican onyx, which it resembled in many ways, excepting that the natural pattern of its convolutions was less marked.  Here and there were patches almost transparent—­certainly translucent.  The whole chest, cover and all, was wrought with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of minute hieroglyphics, seemingly in an endless series.  Back, front, sides, edges, bottom, all had their quota of the dainty pictures, the deep blue of their colouring showing up fresh and sharply edge in the yellow stone.  It was very long, nearly nine feet; and perhaps a yard wide.  The sides undulated, so that there was no hard line.  Even the corners took such excellent curves that they pleased the eye.  “Truly,” I said, “this must have been made for a giant!”

“Or for a giantess!” said Margaret.

This sarcophagus stood near to one of the windows.  It was in one respect different from all the other sarcophagi in the place.  All the others in the house, of whatever material—­granite, porphyry, ironstone, basalt, slate, or wood—­were quite simple in form within.  Some of them were plain of interior surface; others were engraved, in whole or part, with hieroglyphics.  But each and all of them had no protuberances or uneven surface anywhere.  They might have been used for baths; indeed, they resembled in many ways Roman baths of stone or marble which I had seen.  Inside this, however, was a raised space, outlined like a human figure.  I asked Margaret if she could explain it in any way.  For answer she said: 

“Father never wished to speak about this.  It attracted my attention from the first; but when I asked him about it he said:  ’I shall tell you all about it some day, little girl—­if I live!  But not yet!  The story is not yet told, as I hope to tell it to you!  Some day, perhaps soon, I shall know all; and then we shall go over it together.  And a mighty interesting story you will find it—­from first to last!’ Once afterward I said, rather lightly I am afraid:  ’Is that story of the sarcophagus told yet, Father?’ He shook his head, and looked at me gravely as he said:  ’Not yet, little girl; but it will be—­if I live—­ if I live!’ His repeating that phrase about his living rather frightened me; I never ventured to ask him again.”