"How absurd!" I said, partly vexed. "What mystery can there be which makes you afraid even to hint at it?"
She leaned toward me, her blind eyes rolling in their sockets, her thin lips quivering.
"A hint I'll give you," she said, "to keep you, mebbe, from talkin' foolishly and comin' to harm. He's of the old stock, I believe in my heart, come back to earth, or enchanted here, just to keep an eye on what's goin' on."
I laughed aloud. But she raised her hand in solemn warning.
"Don't for your life—don't make game of things of that sort!"
"Well, putting all that aside," I said, with some impatience, "what is the general opinion of the country people about this man?"
I asked this decisive question, though I had a pretty fair notion of what it might be from the fragmentary hints of my landlord.
"Well, it's good and it's bad," she replied, nodding her head impressively. "Truth to tell, there's so many stories goin' about the schoolmaster that it's hard to know the right from the wrong. There's them, as I was sayin', that declares he's mad, and there's more that'll tell you he's worse. And mind you, ma'am dear, none of them knows about the trinkets I was speakin' of, barrin' Miss Winifred and myself. For she put it on me not to tell; and of course I didn't till the blessed moment when I opened my heart to you, knowin' well that you'd never let a word of what I told you pass your lips."
"I shall keep the secret, of course," I promised; adding: "As to the man's character, the truth probably lies somewhere between the two opinions; but I still think him an unsuitable companion for Winifred, because he is likely to fill her head with all kinds of nonsense."