“Well, I don’t think I should like to live here always,” she said, and paused.
She was thinking of the odd incident of the night before, and there lurked in one dark corner of her mind just the faintest image of horror, very faint, but still genuine, and which, the longer she looked at it grew the darker; “and I was going to ask you if we could change our room.”
“I think, darling,” said he, looking at her steadily, “the one we have got is almost the only habitable bed-room in the house, and certainly the most comfortable, but if you like any other room better—have you been looking?”
“No, darling, only I’m such a coward, and so foolish; I fancied I saw something when I was going into it last night—old Mrs. Tarnley was quite close to me.”
“If you saw her it was quite enough to frighten any one. But what was it—robber, or only a ghost?” he asked.
“Neither, only a kind of surprise and a fright. I did not care to talk about it last night, and I thought it would have quite passed away by to-day; but I can’t quite get rid of it—and, shall I tell it all to you now?” answered Alice.
“You must tell me all, by-and-by,” he laughed; “you shall have any room you like better, only remember they’re all equally old; and now, I have a secret to tell you. Harry is coming to dine with us; he’ll be here at six—and—look here, how oddly my letters come to me.”
And he held the envelope he had just now opened by the corner before her eyes. It was thus:—
“Mr. Thomas Sherwood,
“Post Office,