“And you don’t believe in it?” inquired the young lady.
“All bosh and nonsense. Not a bit of it,” he replied.
“Oh, William, I am so delighted to hear you say so!” she exclaimed, much relieved by the promulgation of so valuable an opinion. “And you’re quite right, I know, about grannie. It is, really—is not it, Winnie?—all, all about that awful spirit-rapping. Grannie never speaks of it to me; I believe she’s afraid of frightening me; but old Winnie, here—you must not tell of her—she tells me all about it—everything; and I am so afraid of it; and it is entirely that. Grannie thinks she has got a message! fancy! How awful! And Winnie does not know what the words were; for grannie writes down the letters with a pencil, and tells her only what she thinks fit; and I am so delighted—you can’t think.”
“You good little Vi, I’m so glad to see you!” She laughed a low little laugh—the first for several days—as he shook her hand again; and he said—
“Winnie, do, like a dear old thing, open my portmanteau—here’s the key—and fetch me a canister you’ll see at the top, with a great paper label, blue and red, on it.”
Away went Winnie Dobbs, with his key and candle, and he said to the pretty girl who stood leaning lightly against the banister—
“My old friend, Vi! When I went into the drawing-room just now, I looked all round for you, and could not think what had become of you, and was really afraid you had gone away to London. I don’t think I should ever care to come to Gilroyd Hall again; I should prefer seeing my aunt anywhere else—it would not be like itself if you were gone.”
“So you really missed me, William!” she laughed.
“I should think so. And another thing—you are not to call me William. Why don’t you call me Willie, or old bear, as you used to do? If you change old names, I’ll begin and call you Miss Darkwell.”
“How awful!”