"And you cannot conjure back your youth in order to understand me," said her niece, musingly. "You are not like Mrs. Wornock, whose mind seems always dwelling upon the past."
"Has she talked to you of her youth?" Mrs. Mornington asked quickly.
"Not directly; but she has talked vaguely sometimes of feelings long dead and gone—of the dead whom she loved—her father whom she lost when she was seventeen, and whose spirit—as she thinks—holds communion with her in her solitary daydreams at the organ. He was a musician, like herself, passionately fond of music."
"I hope you will not take up any of Mrs. Wornock's fads."
"Not unless you call music a fad."
"No, no, music is well enough, and I like you to practise and improve your playing. But I hope you will never allow yourself to believe in poor Mrs. Wornock's nonsense about spirit-rapping, and communion with the dead. You must see that the poor woman is toquée."
"I see that she is dreamy; and I am not carried away by her dreams. I think her the most interesting woman I ever met. Don't be jealous, auntie darling, I should never be as fond of her as I am of you."
"I hope not!"
"Only I can't help being interested in her. She is simpatica."
"'Simpatica!' I hate the word. I never heard any one talked of as simpatica who hadn't a bee in her bonnet. I really don't know if your father ought to allow you to be so much at the Manor."