“Yes, a blacksmith.”

“And make horseshoes?”

“Naturally, yes.”

“And do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Quite alone!”

“And how long have you lived here alone?”

“Not so long that I am tired of it.”

“And is this cottage yours?”

“Yes—­that is, it stands on the Sefton estates, I believe, but nobody hereabouts would seem anxious to dispute my right of occupying the place.

“Why not?”

“Because it is generally supposed to be haunted.”

“Oh!”

“It was built by some wanderer of the roads,” I explained, “a stranger to these parts, who lived alone here, and eventually died alone here.”

“Died here?”

“Hanged himself on the staple above the door, yonder.”

“Oh!” said she again, and cast a fearful glance towards the deep-driven, rusty staple.

“The country folk believe his spirit still haunts the place,” I went on, “and seldom, or never, venture foot within the Hollow.”

“And are you not afraid of this ghost?”

“No,” said I.

“It must be very lonely here.”

“Delightfully so.”

“Are you so fond of solitude?”

“Yes, for solitude is thought, and to think is to live.”

“And what did you do with the—­pistol?”

“I dropped it out of sight behind my books yonder.”

“I wonder why I gave it to you.”

“Because, if you remember, I asked you for it.”

“But I usually dislike doing what I am asked, and your manner was—­scarcely courteous.”

“You also objected to my eyes, I think?”

“Yes,” she nodded.

“Hum!” said I.

The dark night, outside, was filled with malignant demons now, who tore at the rattling casements, who roared and bellowed down the chimney, or screamed furiously round the cottage; but here, in the warm firelight, I heeded them not at all, watching, rather, this woman, where she sat, leaned forward, gazing deep into the glow.  And where the light touched her hair it woke strange fires, red and bronze.  And it was very rebellious hair, with little tendrils that gleamed, here and there, against her temples, and small, defiant curls that seemed to strive to hide behind her ear, or, bold and wanton, to kiss her snowy neck—­out of sheer bravado.

As to her dress, I, little by little, became aware of two facts, for whereas her gown was of a rough, coarse material such as domestic servants wear, the stockinged foot that peeped at me beneath its hem (her shoes were drying on the hearth) was clad in a silk so fine that I could catch, through it, the gleam of the white flesh beneath.  From this apparent inconsistency I deduced that she was of educated tastes, but poor—­probably a governess, or, more likely still, taking her hands into consideration, with their long, prehensile fingers, a teacher of music, and was going on to explain to myself her present situation as the outcome of Beauty, Poverty, and the Devil, when she sighed, glanced toward the door, shivered slightly, and reaching her shoes from the hearth prepared to slip them on.