"It would be easy to make one."
"You mustn't, or it will lead you the wrong way."
"My imagination," he began, and added, as if to himself: "It is dangerous to be the servant of one's imagination."
Going up the dark and creaking stairs, he was afraid, but in the big chamber she had assigned to him he found quietness. Nothing evil or uneasy dwelt there and he slept peacefully till morning.
[CHAPTER IX]
This experience, carefully edited, made a new tale for Theresa. The cavernous kitchen, the big woman sitting on the stool and telling dreams, the larches, like sentinels, about the house, and the sweet peace of the upper room, were new pictures to be added to her store, and they were favoured ones, mystery haunted.
"Do you like this new lady better than Mrs. Rutherford?" she asked. "I think I do."
"They are different, Theresa—quite different."
"I suppose Alexander likes his mother best?"