"I say, Bab, we are going into the drawing-room to tell ghost stories. O'Neil has a splendid one,--a real Irish family banshee yarn. Come on, you and Graham."
"In a moment, Hal, don't wait for us; we will join you before you are all settled and Mr. O'Neil has begun."
The library was again empty. The voices of the holiday folk reached their ears across the hall.
"Tell me what you have heard from her."
There was no need of speaking her name. Her face looked at them from its place over the mantel-shelf,--a quick, strong sketch made by Graham. From a leafy background white shoulders, and a fair face with deep eyes, were shadowed forth. The firelight, falling restlessly upon the picture, touched into light now the full red mouth, now the ivory throat.
"I have not heard for some time. She was in Venice again, very ill from the long journey, when she last wrote."
"You have not heard since?"
"No."
"Do you think she is well now, and--and at peace?"
"No."