“Gaelic,” whispered Madeline under her breath. “I heard the words for love and grief.”
“She’s changed to English now,” whispered Mr. Dwight after a minute. “She’s crying, ‘My prince, my prince, my prince,’ over and over.”
“What’s that in her hand?” asked Babe, who was clinging tight to Betty.
“It’s a bit of Scotch plaid, isn’t it?” Babbie answered. “That pretty red kind——”
“The royal Stuart,” supplied Madeline.
“Then it is Flora Macdonald.” In her excitement Babbie forgot to speak low. “And she’s kept a bit of the Stuart plaid in memory of the prince whose life she saved. She was in love with him, of course, and she got him off to France, and he forgot her. And they locked her up here right afterward, when she was feeling the worst about having him gone. Oh, it all fits in beautifully! How can you help believing in ghosts after this?”
“How, indeed?” agreed Madeline drily. “Oh, ghost!” She raised her voice. “Come up on the turret of yon gray donjon, and help us toast marshmallows in the blaze of the beacon light.”
“Madeline!” chorused three indignant voices, while John burst into peals of laughter and Mrs. Hildreth, who had been let into Madeline’s secret, reproached the girls for having been so gullible.
“Though it was a very effective ghost,” she admitted, “and Madeline’s awe-struck face, as she repeated the old woman’s description, was capital.”
“Don’t blame it all on me,” protested Madeline. “Mr. Dwight is a fellow conspirator.”