He burst out into that suppressed roar which serves a man instead of tears, and jumped up from his seat, clenching his fist.  The clenched fist was to the intention of the dead woman whose fault this was; and if it had ever entered the doctor’s mind, as his mother supposed, to marry this forlorn child, and thus bestow a home upon her whether she would or no, no doubt he would now have attempted to carry out that plan.  But as no such thing had occurred to him, the doctor only showed his sense of the intolerable by look and gesture.  “I must speak to the vicar.  I must see Furnival.  It can’t be permitted,” he cried.

“Do you think I shall not be kind to her, doctor?” cried Mrs. Turner.  “Oh, ask her! she is one that understands.  She knows far better than that.  We’re not fine people, doctor, but we’re kind people.  I can say that for myself.  There is nobody in this house but will be good to her, and admire her, and take an example by her.  To have a real lady with the girls, that is what I would give anything for; and as she wants taking care of, poor dear, and petting, and an ’ome—­” Mary, who would not hear any more, got up hastily, and took the hand of her new protectress, and kissed her, partly out of gratitude and kindness, partly to stop her mouth, and prevent the saying of something which it might have been still more difficult to support.  “You are a real lady yourself, dear Mrs. Turner,” she cried. (And this notwithstanding the one deficient letter:  but many people who are much more dignified than Mrs. Turner—­people who behave themselves very well in every other respect—­say “’ome.”)

“Oh, my dear, I don’t make any pretensions,” the good woman cried, but with a little shock of pleasure which brought the tears to her eyes.

And then the story was told.  Connie had seen the lady walk up-stairs, and had thought no harm.  The child supposed it was some one belonging to the house.  She had gone into the room which was now Connie’s room; but as that had a second door, there was no suspicion caused by the fact that she was not found there a little time after, when the child told her mother what she had seen.  After this, Connie had seen the same lady several times, and once had met her face to face.  The child declared that she was not at all afraid.  She was a pretty old lady, with white hair and dark eyes.  She looked a little sad, but smiled when Connie stopped and stared at her,—­not angry at all, but rather pleased,—­and looked for a moment as if she would speak.  That was all.  Not a word about a ghost was said in Connie’s hearing.  She had already told it all to the doctor, and he had pretended to consider which of the old ladies in the neighborhood this could be.  In Mary’s mind, occupied as it was by so many important matters, there had been up to this time no great question about Connie’s apparition; now she began to listen closely, not so much from real interest as from a perception that the doctor, who