“There are plenty of young feet to go pattering about,” she said. “I am much too old to turn housemaid and cook.”
They spread a steamer rug on the ground, being old and seasoned picnickers by this time, and presently they were nibbling sandwiches and drinking tea among the ancient, toppling grave stones. There is something ghastly and crude about a new-made grave, a naked mound of earth that suggests the horror of death. But the old grass-grown cemetery which had crept within the walls of the ruined abbey seemed to have been there always, a part of the scene.
After they had finished and packed up the lunch things, Miss Campbell, following a time-honored custom, pillowed her head on one of the motor car cushions and took a nap.
Maria also was inclined to be silent. Leaning against one of the old grave stones she closed her eyes and relaxed into a half-sleeping, half-waking state that only those who lead very busy lives can really enjoy. And Maria was a very busy woman indeed for ten months out of the twelve.
The four young girls slipped away to explore the ancient ruins.
“I should think the ghosts of the departed who are buried here would like to come back, if only to see the scenery again,” remarked Mary.
“I should not be afraid of such a gentle ghost as that, who returned to look at a view,” said Billie. “But I shouldn’t care to see a skeleton in a monk’s dress sitting in one of these cells. Isn’t that what the housemaid told us her grandfather had seen?”
“Yes, and the skeleton monk beckoned to him with a bony finger to follow, and he believed it was to show him a place where treasure was buried, and fell into a ditch and broke his leg and the monk crumbled into nothing,” finished Mary.
“Like most ghost stories,” added skeptical Billie.
“I think I could believe in ghosts and fairies, too, if I lived here,” continued Mary. “There is a fairy glen around here somewhere, and if you find the place where the magic circle is,—it isn’t everybody who can see a magic circle; it takes a special kind of eye,—and then lie down flat and peep through a little hole in a leaf from an oak tree,—if you look long enough, you can see tiny processions of ancient peoples.”