And then as she saw a rather peculiar look flit over her companion’s face, she added quickly:  “D’you think that you have seen anything since you’ve been here, Miss Brabazon?”

Helen hesitated.  “No,” she said.  “I haven’t exactly seen anything.  But—­well, the truth is, Miss Farrow, that I do feel sometimes as if Wyndfell Hall was haunted by the spirit of my poor friend Milly, Mr. Varick’s wife.  Perhaps I feel as I do because, of course, I know that this strange and beautiful old house was once her home.  It’s pathetic, isn’t it, to see how very little remains of her here?  One might, indeed, say that nothing remains of her at all!  I haven’t even been able to find out which was her room; and I’ve often wondered in the last two days whether she generally sat in the hall or in that lovely little drawing-room.”

“I can tell you one thing,” said Blanche rather shortly, “that is that there is a room in this house called ‘the schoolroom.’  It’s between the dining-room and the servants’ offices.  I believe it was there that Miss Fauncey, as the people about here still call her, used to do her lessons, with a rather disagreeable woman rejoicing in the extraordinary name of Pigchalke, who lived on with her till she married.”

“That horrible, horrible woman!” exclaimed Helen.  “Of course I know about her.  She adored poor Milly.  But she was an awful tyrant to her all the same.  She actually wrote to me some time ago.  It was such an odd letter—­quite a mad letter, in fact.  It struck me as so queer that before answering it I sent it on to Mr. Varick.  She wanted to see me, to talk to me about poor Milly’s last illness.  She has a kind of crazy hatred of Mr. Varick.  Of course I got out of seeing her.  Luckily we were just starting for Strathpeffer.  I put her off—­I didn’t actually refuse.  I said I couldn’t see her then, but that I would write to her later.”

“Lionel mentioned her to me the other day.  He allows her a hundred a year,” said Blanche indifferently.

“How very good of him!” in a very different tone of voice she said musingly:  “I have sometimes wondered if the room I’m sleeping in now was that in which Milly slept as a girl.  Sometimes I feel as if she was close to me, trying to speak to me—­it’s a most queer, uncanny, horrid kind of feeling!”

* * * * *

Blanche and Bubbles knew from experience that Christmas Day in the country is not invariably a pleasant day; but they had thought out every arrangement to make it “go” as well as was possible.  They were all to have a sort of early tea, and then those who felt like it would proceed to the village schoolroom, and help with the Christmas Treat.

An important feature of the proceedings was to be a short speech by Lionel Varick.  Blanche had found, to her surprise and amusement, that he had set his heart on making it.  He wanted to get into touch with his poorer neighbours—­not only in a material sense, by distributing gifts of beef and blankets; that he had already arranged to do—­but in a closer, more human sense.  No one she had ever known desired more ardently to be liked than did the new owner of Wyndfell Hall.