“Alice pines for children,” she said to Norman, who pinched her cheek and, like a man, told her she thought every one as romantic and as affectionate as herself.  Had Mrs. Nailor heard this speech she would have blinked her innocent eyes and have purred with silent thoughts on the blindness of men.

This evening Mrs. Lancaster had come down from the nursery, where shouts of childish merriment had told of her romps with the ringletted young brigand who ruled there, and was sitting quite silent in the deep arm-chair in an attitude of profound reflection, her head thrown back, her white arms resting languidly on the arms of the chair, her face unusually thoughtful, her eyes on the gilded ceiling.

Mrs. Wentworth watched her for a moment silently, and then said: 

“You must not let the boy tyrannize over you so.”

Mrs. Lancaster’s reply was complete: 

“I love it; I just love it!”

Presently Mrs. Wentworth spoke again.

“What is the matter with you this evening?  You seem quite distraite.”

“I saw a ghost to-day.”  She spoke without moving.

Mrs. Wentworth’s face took on more interest.

“What do you mean?  Who was it?”

“I mean I saw a ghost; I might say two ghosts, for I saw in imagination also the ghost of myself as I was when a girl.  I saw the man I was in love with when I was seventeen.”

“I thought you were in love with Ferdy then?”

“No; never.”  She spoke with sudden emphasis.

“How interesting!  And you congratulated yourself on your escape?  We always do.  I was violently in love with a little hotel clerk, with oily hair, a snub-nose, and a waxed black moustache, in the Adirondacks when I was that age.”

Mrs. Lancaster made no reply to this, and her hostess looked at her keenly.

“Where was it?  How long before—?” She started to ask, how long before she was married, but caught herself.  “What did he look like?  He must have been good-looking, or you would not be so pensive.”

“He looked like—­a man.”

“How old was he—­I mean, when he fell in love with you?” said Mrs. Wentworth, with a sort of gasp, as she recalled Mr. Lancaster’s gray hair and elderly appearance.

“Rather young.  He was only a few years older than I was; a young—­what’s his name?—­Hercules, that brought me down a mountain in his arms the second time I ever saw him.”

“Alice Lancaster!”

“I had broken my leg—­almost I had got a bad fall from a horse and could not walk, and he happened to come along.”

“Of course.  How romantic!  Was he a doctor?  Did you do it on purpose?” Mrs. Lancaster smiled.

“No; a young schoolmaster up in the mountains.  He was not handsome—­not then.  But he was fine-looking, eyes that looked straight at you and straight through you; the whitest teeth you ever saw; and shoulders!  He could carry a sack of salt!” At the recollection a faint smile flickered about her lips.