"And now she has taken fright," proceeded the lady. "How anyone could make her hear their story, the Lord in heaven alone knows; and if there was anything to see, I am sure she is far too blind to see it; but she says she daren't stay. She does not want to see poor master again till she is dead herself."
"I have got a tenant for the house the moment you like to say you will leave it," said Mr. Craven, in reply. "He cares for no ghost that ever was manufactured. He has a wife with a splendid digestion, and several grown-up sons and daughters. They will soon clear out the shadows; and their father is willing to pay two hundred and fifty pounds a year."
"And you think there is really nothing more of any use amongst the papers?"
"I am afraid not—I am afraid you must face the worst."
"And my sister's child left no better off than a street beggar," suggested Miss Blake.
"Come, come," remonstrated Mr. Craven; "matters are not so bad as all that comes to. Upon three hundred a year, you can live very comfortable on the Continent; and—"
"We'll go," interrupted Miss Blake; "but it is hard lines—not that anything better could have been expected from Robert Elmsdale."
"Ah! dear Miss Blake, the poor fellow is dead. Remember only his virtues, and let his faults rest."
"I sha'n't have much to burden my memory with, then," retorted Miss Blake, and departed.
Her next letter to my principal was dated from Rouen; but before that reached Buckingham Street, our troubles had begun.