Miss Ann rose from the tea-table, softly closed the door of Miss Jane’s bedroom, and resumed:
“So you see, dear, my sister Jane and I have lived here so long that we have become attached to the old house, gloomy as it is. I don’t think I should have the courage to move again among strangers—when I think of all the people we have seen settled here,” smiled Miss Ann reminiscently, while she paused to pour a second cup of tea for Sue.
“Oh! please go on,” pleaded Sue eagerly, as she recovered her boots, now warm and dry. “Do tell me all about them,” she added as she laced them. “Don’t you love to study people? They are all so different, you know. You were speaking of Mr. Crane and his top floor when I interrupted you. Do tell me more of the history of the house; it’s simply fascinating.”
“Well, let me see. Then, there was old Mr. Peapod.”
“Peapod!” laughed Sue. “Delicious!”
“Simon Peapod. Such an eccentric, withered-up old man, who used to stutter with embarrassment, I remember, every time we met him on the stairs. Somebody in the house, Mr. Crane says, once invited him (Shy Simon we used to call him) to dinner, and he stole down-stairs, sneaked around a corner to a lamp-post box, and mailed a regret,” chuckled Miss Ann, “although he lived on the floor above them—where the young men are now.”
“And so they succeeded Mr.—oh, delicious name!—Mr. Peapod?”
“No, my dear, a Miss Green succeeded Mr. Peapod.”
“I knew a Miss Anna Green, from New York, a sculptress. She used to come to Clapham to visit an aunt—a tall girl with dark hair. I wonder if it could have been she,” Sue ventured.
“No, my child. The Miss Green I speak of was an actress—dear, it isn’t a very happy history—she’s dead, poor girl.”