“Maida, hush!” her father spoke sternly; “I won’t allow such talk! It isn’t like you, my child, and it isn’t——”
“Isn’t good form, I s’pose!” she interrupted. “Well, I’ll let up, dads, and I am a little ashamed of myself. Mother, maybe the phantom bugler was announcing the death of old Appleby!”
“Hush, Maida! What has got into you?”
“I’m incorrigible, I guess——”
“You are!” and Allen smiled fondly at her. “Come out for a walk in the sunshine with me, and get these awful thoughts out of your brain.”
“I know I’m a criminal,” said Maida, as they walked down a garden path; “but I can’t help it. I’ve more to bear than you know of, Jeff, and you must make allowance.”
“I do, sweetheart. And I know how you’re troubled, and all that, but don’t say such dreadful things. I know you don’t mean them.”
“No, I don’t—at least, I don’t think I do. But I won’t say them any more. I think I lost my head——”
“Forget it. You’re upset and nervous and your mother’s worry reflects itself on you. Is there really a bugler tradition?”
“Not over here. There was one connected with mother’s family long ago, in England, I believe. Of course, it was just one of those old spook yarns that most old houses have over there. But mother always remembered it. She has told everybody who ever visited here about it, and I think she always expected to hear the thing. Queer, though, wasn’t it?”