She disagreed—decidedly.
"Any one can have my ghost that wants. I'm awfully easily scared."
"Are you?" There was a deep note in his voice. "No, I don't believe that.
I'm sure you're a plucky woman. I know you are!"
She laughed out.
"How do you know?"
"Why, no one but a plucky woman could have taken this farm and be working it as you're doing."
"That's not pluck," she said, half scornfully. "But if it is—well, I've got plenty of pluck of that kind. But I am often scared, downright scared, about nothing. It's just fear, that's what it is."
"Fear of what?"
"I don't know."
She spoke in a sombre, shrinking tone, which struck him uncomfortably. But when he tried further to discover what she meant, she would say nothing more. He noticed, indeed, that she would often seem to turn the talk upon herself, only to cut it short again immediately. She offered him openings, and then he could make nothing of them; so that when they reached the outskirts of the farm on their return, he had given her all the main outlines of his own history, and she had said almost nothing of hers.