CHAPTER IV.
VIOLET DARKWELL.
At the head of the stairs, the topmost step of which had been their bench, there rose to him two female figures. He did not instantly recognise them, for one candle only was burning, and it was on the little table nearly behind them. One was old Winnie Dobbs, the other Violet Darkwell; she stood up slight and girlish still, but looking taller than he had expected, with an old faded silk quilted shawl of Aunt Dinah’s about her shoulders, and hood-wise over her head, for the night was frosty.
“Ha! Vi—little Vi, I was going to say; dear me! how you have grown! So glad to see you.”
He had the girl’s slim hand in his, and was speaking as he felt, very kindly.
“We’ve been waiting here, Winnie and I, to hear what you thought of dear grannie,”—(grannie was merely a pet name in this case, defining no relationship)—“and what do you think, William?”
“I really don’t understand it,” he answered. “I—I hope it’s all nonsense; I really think so. She says she is very well; and the doctor—Drake, you know—I really think he was laughing, and one thing I’m quite certain of—it is connected in her mind with that foolish spirit-rapping.”