“It was providential.  Come and hear what the child has seen.”  Mrs. Turner, though she was so anxious, was too polite not to make a fuss about getting chairs for all her visitors.  She postponed her own trouble to this necessity, and trembling, sought the most comfortable seat for Mrs. Bowyer, the largest and most imposing for the vicar himself.  When she had established them in a little circle, and done her best to draw Mary, too, into a chair, she sat down quietly, her mind divided between the cares of courtesy and the alarms of an anxious mother.  Mary stood at the table and waited till the commotion was over.  The new-comers thought she was going to explain her conduct in leaving them; and Mrs. Bowyer, at least, who was critical in point of manners, shivered a little, wondering if perhaps (though she could not find it in her heart to blame Mary) her proceedings were in perfect taste.

“The little girl,” Mary said, beginning abruptly.  She had been standing by the table, her lips apart, her countenance utterly pale, her mind evidently too much absorbed to notice anything.  “The little girl has seen several times a lady going up-stairs.  Once she met her and saw her face, and the lady smiled at her; but her face was sorrowful, and the child thought she was looking for something.  The lady was old, with white hair done up upon her forehead, and lace upon her head.  She was dressed—­” here Mary’s voice began to be interrupted from time to time by a brief sob—­“in a long dress that made a soft sound when she walked, and a white shawl, and the lace tied under her chin in a large soft knot—­”

“Mary, Mary!” Mrs. Bowyer had risen and stood behind the girl, in whose slender throat the climbing sorrow was almost visible, supporting her, trying to stop her.  “Mary, Mary!” she cried; “oh, my darling, what are you thinking of?  Francis! doctor! make her stop, make her stop.”

“Why should she stop?” said Mrs. Turner, rising, too, in her agitation.  “Oh, is it a warning, is it a warning? for my child has seen it,—­Connie has seen it.”

“Listen to me, all of you,” said Mary, with an effort.  “You all know—­who that is.  And she has seen her,—­the little girl—­”

Now the others looked at each other, exchanging a startled look.

“My dear people,” cried the doctor, “the case is not the least unusual.  No, no, Mrs. Turner, it is no warning,—­it is nothing of the sort.  Look here, Bowyer; you’ll believe me.  The child is very nervous and sensitive.  She has evidently seen a picture somewhere of our dear old friend.  She has heard the story somehow,—­oh, perhaps in some garbled version from Prentiss, or—­of course they’ve all been talking of it.  And the child is one of those creatures with its nerves all on the surface,—­and a little below par in health, in need of iron and quinine, and all that sort of thing.  I’ve seen a hundred such cases,” cried the doctor, “—­a thousand such; but now, of course, we’ll have a fine story made of it, now that it’s come into the ladies’ hands.”