After I had held the door open for Miss Blake to pass out, and closed it
securely and resumed my seat, Miss Blake turned the handle and treated
us to another sight of her bonnet.
"Good-bye, William Craven, for two years at any rate; and if I never see
you again, God bless you, for you've been a true friend to me and that
poor child who has nobody else to look to," and then, before Mr. Craven
could cross the room, she was gone.
"I wonder," said I, "if it will be two years before we see her again?"
"No, nor the fourth of two years," answered my employer. "There is
something queer about that house."
"You don't think it is haunted, sir, do you?" I ventured.
"Of course not," said Mr. Craven, irritably; "but I do think some one
wants to keep the place vacant, and is succeeding admirably."
The question I next put seemed irrelevant, but really resulted from a
long train of thought. This was it:
"Is Miss Elmsdale very handsome, sir?"
"She is very beautiful," was the answer; "but not so beautiful as her
mother was."
Ah me! two old, old stories in a sentence. He had loved the mother, and
he did not love the daughter. He had seen the mother in his bright,
hopeful youth, and there was no light of morning left for him in which
he could behold the child.
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