Then he walked down the street; but when he reached his club he did not enter it. He walked on and on. He puzzling, not so much over his niece's strange words as over something else. Who was that woman who sat by Charlotte's hearth that day?
CHAPTER IX.
CHARLOTTE CANNOT BEAR THE DARK.
The elder Mr. Harman had retired to his study, and Charlotte and her uncle sat side by side in that young lady's own private apartment. The room looked snug and sheltered, and the subdued light from a Queen's reading-lamp, and from the glowing embers of a half burned-out fire, were very pleasant. Uncle Jasper was leaning back in an armchair, but Charlotte stood on the hearthrug. Soft and faint as the light was, it revealed burning cheeks and shining eyes; but the old face these tokens of excitement appealed to remained completely in shadow.
Charlotte had told the story she had heard that day, and during its whole recital her uncle had sat motionless, making no comment either by word or exclamation.
Mrs. Home's tale had been put into skilful hands. It was well told—all the better because the speaker so earnestly hoped that its existence might turn out a myth—that the phantom so suddenly conjured up might depart as quickly as it had arrived. At last the story came to a conclusion. There was a pause, and Charlotte said,——
"Well, Uncle Jasper?"
"Well, Lottie?" he answered. And now he roused himself, and bent a little forward.
"Is the story true, Uncle Jasper?"