"That is so melancholy," she said, "something so long ago about it, like the ghost of a sorrow rather than a sorrow itself. I know—I know what it makes me think of. Listen, Ellinor."
For out of school hours the two threw formality aside. And Sybil told of the sad, wistful old face looking over the stile.
"Now it has come back to me," she said, "I can't forget it."
Ellinor, too, was impressed.
"Yes," she said, "it sounds very pitiful. Who knows what tragedy is bound up in it?" and she sighed.
Sybil understood her. Miss March's own history was a strange one.
"We must find out about it when we go down to Monksholdings next year," she said.
"And perhaps," added Ellinor, "even if he is half-witted, we might do something to comfort the poor man."
Sybil hesitated.
"Then you don't think he can be a ghost?" she said, looking half ashamed of the suggestion.