says one thing,’ says I, ’and some says another, but I takes no notice of nothink.’  But put up with a deal, I have—­more than ever I told a soul since I come here, which I promised Mrs. de Noel when she asked me to oblige her; which the blue lights I have seen a many times, and tapping of coffin-nails on the wall, and never close my eyes for nights sometimes, but am entirely wore away, and my nerve that weak; and then to be so hurt in my feelings, and spoke to as I am not accustomed, but always treated everywhere I goes with the greatest of kindness and respect, which ask Mrs. de Noel she will tell you, since ever I was a widow; but pack my things I will, and walk every step of the way, if it was pouring cats and dogs, I would, rather than stay another minute here to be so put upon; and send for Mrs. de Noel if you don’t believe me, and she will tell you the many high families she recommended me, and always give satisfaction.  Send for Mrs. de Noel—­”

The swing door closed behind her, and the sounds of her grief and her reiterated appeals to Mrs. de Noel died slowly away in the distance.

“What on earth have you been saying to her?” said Atherley to his wife, who had come out into the hall.

“Only that she behaved very badly indeed in speaking about the ghost to Mrs. Molyneux’s maid, who, of course, repeated it all directly and made Lucinda nervous.  She is a most troublesome, mischievous old woman.”

“But she can cook.  Pray what are we to do for dinner?”

“I am sure I don’t know.  I never knew anything so unlucky as it all is, and Lucinda looking so ill.”

“Well, you had better send for the doctor.”

“She won’t hear of it.  She says nobody could do her any good but Cecilia.”

“What!  ‘Send for Mrs. de Noel?’ Poor Cissy!  What do these excited females imagine she is going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I do wish we could get her here.”

“But she is in London, is she not, with Aunt Henrietta?”

“Yes, and only comes home to-day.”

“Well, I will tell you what we might do if you want her badly.  Telegraph to her to London and ask her to come straight on here.”

“I suppose she is sure to come?”

“Like a shot, if you say we are all ill.”

“No, that would frighten her.  I will just say we want her particularly.”

“Yes, and say the carriage shall meet the 5.15 at Whitford station, and then she will feel bound to come.  And as I shall not be back in time, send Lindy to meet her.  It will do him good.  He looks as if he had been sitting up all night with the ghost.”

It was a melancholy day.  The wind was quieter, but the rain still fell.  Indoors we were all in low spirits, not even excepting the little boys, much concerned about Tip, who was not his usual brisk and complacent self.  His nose was hot, his little stump of a tail was limp, he hid himself under chairs and tables, whence he turned upon us sorrowful and beseeching eyes, and, most alarming symptom of all, refused sweet biscuits.  During the afternoon he was confided to me by his little masters while they made an expedition to the stables, and I was sitting reading by the library fire with the invalid beside me when Lady Atherley came in to propose I should go into the drawing-room and talk to Mrs. Molyneux, who had just come down.