"A wild, ragged man. He looked sick, and—I had just a glimpse, but he looked—all wrong, somehow. It's the old Gaylord place, you know. I never saw any living creature about it before,—but once! Have you ever seen any one there, Mr. Chanter?"
Mr. Chanter cleared his throat with some elaboration.
"I believe it has not been inhabited for some years," he replied. There was a shade on his candid countenance. He was not in the habit of evading the direct answer.
"It is a fine place, spite of its neglected condition."
Kitty glanced back at the dark hedge, with the dark chimneys rising above it, and shivered a little. "I have always been afraid of the place, somehow!" she said. "I had a fright there once, when I was a child."
"Had you so, my love? No one should ever frighten a child. Very remiss: very wrong, if intentional."
"Oh, no, no one meant to frighten me. It was just an accident. We used to go there for nuts, Tom Lee and I. There was a huge chestnut tree—I suppose it is still there—by the side door of the house. It bore the biggest chestnuts I ever saw, and Tom and I went there regularly every October. There was something terrifying about the great dark shuttered house; (to me, that is: Tom was never afraid of anything;) and that always made it an exciting expedition. You know there is a round hole in every shutter, near the top? We used to make believe we saw eyes looking at us out of those holes; and then—one day—" Kitty shivered again: "well, one day, there were eyes!"
"My child! my child! a—a—lively imagination, no doubt! The young——"
"No, Mr. Chanter, the eyes were there: we saw them wink. And then—we used to call that little side door the postern, and imagine all kinds of people coming out of it, knights and giants and princesses—well; all of a sudden the door did open, and a man came out—why!" Kitty stopped short and turned a pale face on her companion. "Why, Mr. Chanter, I believe—it was—the—same man!"
"The same man, my dear?"