“Why should you think that?”

He had sat up stiffly, and while she clung whispering at his breast he looked out over her head, glancing his eyes in all directions.  Straight in front of him across the glade, the great beeches were gray and ghostly, and beyond them in the strip that concealed the ride it seemed that the shadows had suddenly thickened and blackened.

“I’ll tell you.  But you tell me something first.  Does Mrs. Dale think this place is haunted?”

He changed his attitude abruptly, put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him, so that he could see her face.

“What was it you asked me?”

“Does she fancy the wood is haunted?”

“No, why?”

“I believe she does.”

“Rubbish.  Why should she?”

“They used to say it was.  Granny used to say so.  She gave me some dreadful whippings for coming here.  Poor Granny was just like Mrs. Dale about it—­always saying it wasn’t right for me to come here.”

Dale had settled the girl on his knees so that she sat now without any support from him.  His hands had dropped to the rough surface of the tree; and he spoke in his ordinary voice.

“Look here, Norah, never mind for a moment what your Granny said.  Tell me what it was that my wife said.”

“When do you mean?  Last time she was angry?”

“I mean, whatever she said—­and whenever she said it—­about ghosts or hauntings.”

“Oh, a long time ago.  It was to Mrs. Goudie.”

“I expect you misunderstood her.  But I’d like to know what first put such nonsense into your head—­that Mrs. Dale thought the wood was haunted.  Can’t you remember exactly what she did say?”

“She said something about the gentleman’s being killed here, and she wondered at the people coming a Sundays like they used to.”

“Was that all?”

“No, she said something about it would serve them right for their pains if they saw the gentleman’s ghost.”

Dale grunted.  “That was just her joke.  There are no such things as ghosts.”

“Aren’t there?” Norah laughed softly and happily, and snuggled down again with her face against his jacket. “You aren’t a ghost—­though you made me jump, yes, you did.  But I wasn’t afraid of you.”

“Hush,” he muttered.  “Norah, don’t go on—­don’t.”  His hands were still on the tree, rigidly fixed there, and he sat bolt upright, staring out over her head.

“Why not?  You said I might tell my secrets.  I wasn’t afraid.  I thought ’Oh, aren’t I glad I done what Mrs. Dale told me not to—­and come into my wondersome, wondersome wood, and drawn you after me!’”

“Norah, stop.”

“Why?  You’re glad too, aren’t you?  I know you are.  I knew it when you came walking so tall and so quiet; an’ I thought ’This is it—­what I always hoped for—­wonders to happen to me in Hadleigh Wood.’  But I was afraid of the wood once—­more afraid than Granny knew.  I wouldn’t tell her.”