The little craft rounded Love’s Point and turned into the waters of the Chester River. “Your uncle promises me some rare sport during the shooting season down here. The country is a very paradise, not only because of its delights, but because of the angelic beings who dwell here,” Mr. Clinton remarked sentimentally to Lettice.
“Angels?” laughed Lettice. “Do you perhaps mean ghosts? The darkies are dreadfully afraid of them, and won’t go near our graveyard.”
“Have you a special graveyard of your own?”
“Yes, haven’t you? Ours is such a quiet, dim little corner of the plantation. It is all moss-grown, and the trees are so thick and green there.”
“Will you show it to me some day?”
“Yes, if you like; but I don’t believe I’d care to go there at night myself.”
“Not if I were with you? Surely, you’d not be afraid then.”
“You couldn’t keep off haunts,” returned Lettice. “Don’t let’s talk of them, it makes me creepy. I like the place in the daytime, when the sun shines in between the leaves and flickers down on the headstones. It is pleasant to go there then, and lie in the long grass, only I always like to have Lutie, even then.”
“And who is Lutie?”
“My maid. She belonged to my mother, and was given to me when I was born.”