Mrs. Trent started, and, the guest fancied, shivered slightly. But she rejoined, impatiently:
“Oh, Mr. Marsh! that nonsense again, and from you!”
“So they say, ma’am.”
Cried Jessica gayly:
“The only thing Sobrante needed to make it as lovely as those old English places one reads about in the story books was a ‘ghost’, and now we’ve got it! Honest, and I do hope you’ll see it for yourself. I want to so much, and one night Samson and I chased it, but––it got away. The ‘boys’ say now that it has even taken to horseback. Don’t you wish you might be luckier than I, Mr. Ninian?”
A glance flashed between the reporter and the sharpshooter, but not quite swiftly enough to escape the girl’s observation; and, after a moment’s pause, she exclaimed:
“Why, I believe you have already seen it!”
There was an awkward silence, which Mrs. Trent broke by the stern reproof she managed to throw into one word: “Jessica!”
“Yes, mother, I know. It’s silly, and I will be careful not to mention the delightful subject before the children.”
“What are you but a child yourself, my mature little woman?” demanded the visitor, playfully.