“I can see by her eyes that she did not sleep last night,” the doctor said, relieved.  “We shall have her seeing visions too, if we don’t take care.”

“And, my dear Mary,” said the vicar, “if you will think of it, it is derogatory to the dignity of—­of our dear friends who have passed away.  How can we suppose that one of the blessed would come down from heaven, and walk about her own house, which she had just left, and show herself to a—­to a—­little child who had never seen her before.”

“Impossible,” said the doctor.  “I told you so; a stranger—­that had no connection with her, knew nothing about her—­”

“Instead of,” said the vicar, with a slight tremor, “making herself known, if that was permitted, to—­to me, for example, or our friend here.”

“That sounds reasonable, Mary,” said Mrs. Bowyer; “don’t you think so, my dear?  If she had come to one of us, or to yourself, my darling, I should never have wondered, after all that has happened.  But to this little child—­”

“Whereas there is nothing more likely—­more consonant with all the teachings of science—­than that the little thing should have this hallucination, of which you ought never to have heard a word.  You are the very last person—­”

“That is true,” said the vicar, “and all the associations of the place must be overwhelming.  My dear, we must take her away with us.  Mrs. Turner, I am sure, is very kind, but it cannot be good for Mary to be here.”

“No, no!  I never thought so,” said Mrs. Bowyer.  “I never intended—­dear Mrs. Turner, we all appreciate your motives.  I hope you will let us see much of you, and that we may become very good friends.  But Mary—­it is her first grief, don’t you know?” said the vicar’s wife, with the tears in her eyes; “she has always been so much cared for, so much thought of all her life—­and then all at once!  You will not think that we misunderstand your kind motives; but it is more than she can bear.  She made up her mind in a hurry, without thinking.  You must not be annoyed if we take her away.”

Mrs. Turner had been looking from one to another while this dialogue went on.  She said now, a little wounded, “I wished only to do what was kind; but, perhaps I was thinking most of my own child.  Miss Vivian must do what she thinks best.”

“You are all kind—­too kind,” Mary cried; “but no one must say another word, please.  Unless Mrs. Turner should send me away, until I know what this all means, it is my place to stay here.”

IX.