“Henbane?” murmured William again, in a puzzled horror.
“H’m!—yes!—Henbane? you seem to have forgotten; one of those—one of the spirits who have attached themselves to me,” and Aunt Dinah shot a quick glance at the doctor, who, though looking again at his crumpet, seemed to cower awfully under it.
“Oh—ay—Henbane?” exclaimed William in a tone of familiarity, which indicated anything but respect for that supernatural acquaintance. “Henbane, to be sure.”
And he looked on his aunt with a half amused recognition, which seemed to say, “Well—and what about that humbug?”
But Aunt Dinah said decisively—
“So much for the present; you shall hear more—everything, by-and-by.”
And there followed a silence.
“Did you remember the snuff, dear William?” inquired the doomed lady, with rather an abrupt transition.
“Certainly; shall I fetch it?” said William, half rising.
Miss Perfect nodded, and away he went, somehow vastly relieved, and with his bed-room candle in his hand, mounted the oak stairs, which were broad and handsome in proportion to the other dimensions of that snug old house.