"That's different," replied Margery promptly. "We'll be late for school; wait till I get my hat and catechism, and we'll talk about it going along."
She came back in a moment, and the two little girls went out into the June sunshine on their way to the convent, where they were to have a catechism instruction, though it was Saturday.
"I think myself it's much more likely he's crazy, or a robber, or something awful," Trix resumed. "You see, no one who was all right could live alone in such a dreadful place as the Dismals."
"You don't suppose he's some exiled prince come over from Europe and hiding there?" suggested Margery.
"They don't have exiled princes now," declared Trix.
"Oh, yes they do; the last of the rightful princes of France died not very long ago; papa said so."
"Well, if he's dead he can't be at the Dismals," said Trix. "I tell you, Margery, this man is some dangerous character, and I shall be afraid of my life to go to bed."
"I'm not afraid now talking about it, because I think maybe he's unfortunate, and not wicked, but when night comes I shall be afraid to go to bed, too," Margery agreed.
The Evergreens, or "the Dismals," lay out of their way to school, but attracted to it by their very fear, the children turned aside in order to pass it, and then raced by it as fast as their feet could carry them, casting fearful glances over their shoulders as they ran. That afternoon among the mail in the Blissylvania post-office was the following circular, in duplicate copies, addressed to Lady Alma Cara, and Mrs. Peace Plenty, and Sir Harry Hotspur. It ran: