"Certainly you are to see her, and to fetch her jelly, and chicken, and toast, and tea, if you will; but you are not to speak of the ghost. That blood-curdling subject is absolutely tabooed in the sick-room, unless—"
"Unless what?" inquired Rose, angrily.
"Unless you want to make a maniac of her. I am serious in this; you must not allude in the remotest way to the cause of her illness when you visit her, or you may regret your indiscretion while you live."
He spoke with a gravity that showed that he was in earnest. Rose shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and walked to Agnes' door. Grace followed at a sign from her brother, who ran down stairs.
The sick girl was not asleep—she lay with her eyes wide open, staring vacantly at the white wall. She looked at them, when they entered, with a half-frightened, half-inquiring gaze.
"Are you better, Agnes?" asked Rose, looking down at the colourless face.
"Oh, yes!"
She answered nervously, her fingers twisting in and out of her bed-clothes—her eyes wandering uneasily from one to the other.
"Wouldn't you like something to eat?" inquired Rose, not knowing what else to say.
"Oh, no!"