It is a day on which the officious dusk of the winter afternoon—always in such haste to shoulder away its pale brother—has already settled down. For sixteen long hours there will be no more glint of light. This dreary thought is passing through Peggy's mind, as she nods drowsily over the fire. She is roused from it and from her semi-sleep by hearing the room-door open cautiously and seeing Sarah making signs—evidently not intended to be seen by Prue—through the aperture.
In obedience to them, Margaret rises languidly, and goes out upon the landing.
'What is it?'
'If you please, 'm, there's a lady wishes to speak to you.'
'Oh, Sarah, you know that I can't see any one; why did not you tell her so?'
'I did tell her so, 'm, but she would not take "No"; she says if she stays all night she must see you.'
'What does she mean?' cries Peggy, in a voice of astonished indignation; 'who can she be? Who is she?'
'Well, 'm, I really did not recognise her until she spoke—dressed in deep mourning and that; and she asked me not to mention her name. She said she was sure you would not see her if I did.'
Dressed in deep mourning! Peggy's legs have been somewhat shaky under her of late, through long standing upon them. Perhaps that is why she now catches at the banisters. It has flashed upon her who her visitor is. What has brought her hither? Why has she come? Has she gone mad?
'Go and sit with Miss Prue, while I am away,' she says to the servant; and so walks slowly downstairs. Outside the door of the hall she pauses a moment to pull herself together. She is trembling violently, and her teeth chatter.