"But, Mark, you know it is impossible."
"Madam, 'twas him. He must ha' come out of his grave for some purpose, and is visiting his own again. I never was a believer in them things afore, or thought as the dead come back to life."
Ghosts have gone out of fashion; therefore the enlightened reader will not be likely to endorse old Canham's belief. But when Mrs. Chattaway, turning quickly up the avenue on her way to the Hold, saw, at no great distance from her, a gentleman standing to talk to some one whom he had encountered, she stopped, as one in sudden terror, and seemed about to fall or faint. Mrs. Chattaway did not believe in "the dead coming back" any more than old Canham had believed in it; but in that moment's startled surprise she did think she saw her father.
She gazed at the figure, her lips apart, her bright complexion fading to ashy paleness. Never had she seen so extraordinary a likeness. The tall, fine form, somewhat less full perhaps than of yore, the distinctly-marked features with their firm and haughty expression, the fresh clear skin, the very manner of handling that silver-headed stick, spoke in unmistakable terms of Squire Trevlyn.
Not until they parted, the two who were talking, did Mrs. Chattaway observe that the other was Nora Dickson. Nora came down the avenue towards her; the stranger went on with his firm step and his firmly-grasped stick. Mrs. Chattaway was advancing then.
"Nora, who is that?" she gasped.
"I am trying to collect my wits, if they are not scared away for good," was Nora's response. "Madam Chattaway, you might just have knocked me down with a feather. I was walking along, thinking of nothing, except my vexation that you were not at home—for Mr. George charged me to bring this note to you, and to deliver it instantly into your own hands, and nobody else's—when I met him. I didn't know whether to face him, or scream, or turn and run; one doesn't like to meet the dead; and I declare to you, Madam Chattaway, I believed, in my confused brain, that it was the dead. I believed it was Squire Trevlyn."
"Nora, I never saw two persons so strangely alike," she breathed, mechanically taking the note from Nora's hand. "Who is he?"
"My brain's at work to discover," returned Nora, dreamily. "I am trying to put two and two together, and can't do it; unless the dead have come to life—or those we believed dead."
"Nora! you cannot mean my father!" exclaimed Mrs. Chattaway, gazing at her with a strangely perplexed face. "You know he lies buried in Barbrook churchyard. What did he say to you?"