“Why, they was boys together,” interrupted the old farmer, who made little of the refinements of speech. In his youth no one, from the lord to the laborer, spoke grammar in the country. “Used to larn to swim together in the Pool, didn’t you, Willie?”
“I must have a dip there to-morrow,” cried Willie; and Agatha wondered what time he would choose. “And I’ll take you there, Nettie. Ever been yet?”
“No. They—they say it’s haunted, don’t they, Willie?”
“That’s nonsense,” said Willie. London makes a man sceptical. The old farmer shook his head and grunted doubtfully. His mother had seen poor Agatha Merceron; this was before the farmer was born—a little while before—and the shock had come nigh to being most serious to him. The whole countryside knew it.
“Why do you call it nonsense, Mr. Prime?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, I don’t know, Miss—-”
“Miss Brown, Willie,” said Nettie.
“Miss Brown. Anyway, we needn’t go the time the ghost comes.”
“I should certainly avoid that,” laughed Agatha.
“We’ll go in the morning, Nettie, and I’ll have my swim in the evening.”