“Uncle Seward,” she said, suddenly. “Do you remember what I said the night I arrived—that this place ought to be haunted?”
“Yes, dear, and I remember my answer—that every place not screechingly new, etc, etc, is supposed to be.”
“Well, is it?”
The directness of the question was a trifle staggering, coming just when it did.
“Well, I’ve been in it some months—all alone too, mind you,” he answered, “and I’ve never seen anything. All alone, mind,” he reiterated, “through long, dark winter evenings and nights. Of course, that poor chap coming to grief here so mysteriously, might give rise to all sorts of yarns among the yokels. But then, where is the house—built longer ago than last year—in which some one or other hasn’t died? No, child; you mustn’t bother your little gold head over such boshy ideas as that. And if you listen to all the old women of both sexes round the country side, why half of them are afraid to cross their village street after dark, unless some one invites them to the pub.”
She laughed; yet somehow or other her laugh did not ring quite spontaneous.
“Of course,” she said. “But—”
“But—what?”
“Oh, nothing. As you say, it’s astonishing how one’s imagination can play the fool with one. Tell me, Uncle Seward, do you believe in that sort of thing?”
“What? In imagination? Of course I do.”