"Me! Neither me nor nobody else, ma'am. If ever Hill calls me to help with a room in the west wing, my lady has first been moved out of it. Since her illness, Hill does the work there herself. No, no; it never was my lady. Unless—unless—oh, goodness, grant it may not be!—unless she's dead!"
"Why, what does the girl mean?" cried Mrs. Penn, tartly.
Lizzy Dene had suddenly flown into one of her rather frequent phases of superstition, and began to explain with a shivering sob.
"It is just this," she whispered, glancing timidly over her shoulder. "Hill was in some distress at mid-day; we servants asked her what was the matter, and she said my lady was worse; as ill as she could be. Now, it is well known, in the moment of death people have appeared to others at a distance. I think my lady must have died, and it was her spirit that Mrs. Penn has just seen in the pine-walk. Oh! ah! oh!"
Lizzy Dene wound up with three shrieks. In some curiosity—to say the least of it—we crossed the lawn. It was curious that Lady Chandos, if worse, should be abroad. Hickens was at the hall-door, looking out probably for me. It was past dinner-time.
"How is Lady Chandos?" I impulsively asked.
"I have not thought to inquire this evening, Miss. I suppose, much as usual."
"Isn't she dead?" put in Lizzy.
"Dead!" he echoed, staring at the girl. "Anyway there's a basin of arrowroot just gone up for her, and I never heard that dead people could eat. What crotchet have you got in your head now, Lizzy Dene?"
I think we all looked a little foolish. Mrs. Penn laughed as she ran in; Lizzy Dene went round to the servants' entrance.