Why should that baby voice be potent only to evoke for me the bitter memories of my loss? I frowned as I sanded the last sheet of a letter to my London correspondents.
"An early Spring after an easy Winter," remarked Allen tentatively. "That should mean a rare flood of furs from the far savages, Master Ormerod."
I growled an assent. I knew the boy meant well. He was ever trying to draw me out of myself.
Upstairs a door opened, and a yelp of infant glee rang in my ears. I leaped to my feet and ran into the hall.
"Elspeth!" I roared.
Her plump features and decent gray locks appeared at the upper landing.
"Eh, sir!" she answered. "I can hear ye fine."
"And I can hear naught but mouthing of silly rhymes and puling babble," I snapped savagely.
"And gey prrroud ye micht well be of that same," she retorted. "It's what ma douce lamb that's gone wad be tellin' ye, if——"
'Twas hopeless to argue with her, and cursing, I crossed the lower hall to the room I devoted to my private affairs and slammed the door after me. But even as I sank into the chair beside the cold hearth, I knew that I might not find escape from that sweet ghost that haunted me, so real, so vital—yet so remote. Wherever I went in that house she followed me. It was as if she sat now in the opposite chair, a bit of embroidery in her lap, her brown eyes dwelling fondly on my face.