Rachel was crouching over the fire as usual, and Janet drew up a stool beside her, and laid a hand on her knee.
"What is it?"
Rachel turned.
"I told you one secret, Janet, the other day. Now this is another. And it's—" She flushed, and broke off, beginning again after a moment—"I didn't mean to tell you, or any one. I can't make up my mind whether I'm bound to or not. But I want you to advise me, Janet. I'm awfully troubled."
And suddenly, she slipped to the floor, and laid her head against Janet's knees, hiding her face.
Janet bent over her, instinctively caressing the brown hair. She was only three or four years older than Rachel, but she looked much older, and the close linen cap she wore on butter-making afternoons, and had not yet removed, gave her a gently austere look, like that of a religious.
"Tell me—I'll do my best."
"In the first place," said Rachel, in a low voice, "who do you think was the ghost?"
"What do you mean?"
"The ghost—was Roger Delane!"