The household, however, was agitated by all these rumors and inventions.  Alice, Connie’s elder sister, declined to sleep any longer in that which began to be called the haunted room.  She, too, began to think she saw something, she could not tell what, gliding out of the room as it began to get dark, and to hear sighs and moans in the corridors.  The servants, who all wanted to leave, and the villagers, who avoided the grounds after nightfall, spread the rumor far and near that the house was haunted.

XI.

In the meantime, Connie herself was silent, and saw no more of the lady.  Her attachment to Mary grew into one of those visionary passions which little girls so often form for young women.  She followed her so-called governess wherever she went, hanging upon her arm when she could, holding her dress when no other hold was possible,—­following her everywhere, like her shadow.  The vicarage, jealous and annoyed at first, and all the neighbors indignant too, to see Mary transformed into a dependent of the city family, held out as long as possible against the good-nature of Mrs. Turner, and were revolted by the spectacle of this child claiming poor Mary’s attention wherever she moved.  But by-and-by all these strong sentiments softened, as was natural.  The only real drawback was, that amid all these agitations Mary lost her bloom.  She began to droop and grow pale under the observation of the watchful doctor, who had never been otherwise than dissatisfied with the new position of affairs, and betook himself to Mrs. Bowyer for sympathy and information.  “Did you ever see a girl so fallen off?” he said.  “Fallen off, doctor!  I think she is prettier and prettier every day.”  “Oh,” the poor man cried, with a strong breathing of impatience, “You ladies think of nothing, but prettiness!—­was I talking of prettiness?  She must have lost a stone since she went back there.  It is all very well to laugh,” the doctor added, growing red with suppressed anger, “but I can tell you that is the true test.  That little Connie Turner is as well as possible; she has handed over her nerves to Mary Vivian.  I wonder now if she ever talks to you on that subject.”

“Who? little Connie?”

“Of course I mean Miss Vivian, Mrs. Bowyer.  Don’t you know the village is all in a tremble about the ghost at the Great House?”

“Oh yes, I know, and it is very strange.  I can’t help thinking, doctor,—­”

“We had better not discuss that subject.  Of course I don’t put a moment’s faith in any such nonsense.  But girls are full of fancies.  I want you to find out for me whether she has begun to think she sees anything.  She looks like it; and if something isn’t done she will soon do so, if not now.”

“Then you do think there is something to see,” said Mrs. Bowyer, clasping her hands; “that has always been my opinion:  what so natural—?”

“As that Lady Mary, the greatest old aristocrat in the world, should come and make private revelations to Betsey Barnes, the under housemaid—?” said the doctor, with a sardonic grin.