On Christmas night this daily ceremony had been put off till Miss Farrow’s bed-time, when, after a quiet, short evening, the party had broken up on the happiest terms with one another.

As Blanche sat down, and her maid began taking the hairpins out of her hair, she told herself with a feeling of gratification that this had been one of the pleasantest Christmas days she had ever spent.  Everything had gone off so well, and she could see that Varick had enjoyed every moment of it, from his surprise distribution of little gifts to his guests at breakfast, to the last warm, grateful hand-shake on the landing outside her door.

“Were you in the school-room, Pegler?” she asked kindly.  “It was really rather charming, wasn’t it?  Everyone happy—­the children and the old people especially.  And they all so enjoyed Miss Bubbles’ dressing up as a witch!”

“Why, yes,” said Pegler grudgingly.  “It was all very nice, ma’am, in a way, and, as you say, it all went off very well.  But there’s a queer rumour got about already, ma’am.”

“A queer rumour?  What d’you mean, Pegler?”

“Quite a number of the village folk say that Mr. Varick’s late lady, the one who used to live here—­” Pegler stopped speaking suddenly, and went on brushing her mistress’s hair more vigorously.

“Yes, Pegler?”—­Miss Farrow spoke with a touch of impatience.  “What about Mrs. Lionel Varick?”

“Well, ma’am, I don’t suppose you’ll credit it, but quite a number of them do say that her sperrit was there during this afternoon.  One woman I spoke to, who was school-room maid here a matter of twenty years back, said she saw her as clear as clear, up on the platform, wearing the sort of grey dress she used to wear when she was a girl, ma’am, when her father was still alive.  None of the men seem to have seen her—­but quite a number of the women did.  The post-mistress says she could have sworn to her anywhere.”

“What absolute nonsense!”

Blanche felt shocked as well as vexed.

“It was when Mr. Varick was making that speech of his,” said Pegler slowly.  “If you’ll pardon me, ma’am, for saying so, it don’t seem nonsense to me.  After what I’ve seen myself, I can believe anything.  Seeing is believing, ma’am.”

“People’s eyes very often betray them, Pegler.  Haven’t you sometimes looked at a thing and thought it something quite different from what it really was?”

“Yes, I have,” acknowledged Pegler reluctantly.  “And of course, the lighting was very bad.  Some of the people hope that Mr. Varick’s going to bring electric light into the village—­d’you think he’ll do that, ma’am?”

“No,” said Miss Farrow decidedly.  “I shouldn’t think there’s a hope of it.  The village doesn’t really belong to him, Pegler.  It was wonderfully kind of him to give what he did give to-day, to a lot of people with whom he has really nothing to do at all.”

And then, after her maid had gone, Blanche lay in bed, and stared into the still bright fire.  Her brain seemed abnormally active, and she found it impossible to go to sleep.  What a curious, uncanny, uncomfortable story—­that of “poor Milly’s” ghost appearing on the little platform of the village school-room!  There seems no measure, even in these enlightened days, to what people will say and believe.