It was a wild winter when Theobald left us, and they cried every
night. It is a sound I have never grown used to, though I have heard it
every winter I can remember. And also the swish of the satin as it went
by my door, and the tap of high-heeled shoes. They cried more that
winter than I ever heard them, except in the winter after Uncle Luke
went away (but then I was little, and had the company of Maureen Kelly,
my nurse); and in a winter which was yet to be.
But at that time I was happy despite the ghosts, and had no idea that
the world held any fate for me other than to be always among such
gentle, high-minded people as were my grandfather and grandmother, my
cousin Theobald, and my dear godmother. For ghosts, especially of one's
own blood, are gentle and little likely to harm one, and must be
permitted by the good God to come back for some good reason.
It is another matter when it is some one of flesh and blood, who wants
to take you in his arms and kiss you while your flesh creeps, and your
whole soul cries out against it. And it is the worst matter of all when
those to whom you have fled all your days for help and protection, to
whom you would have looked to save you from such a thing, look on, with
pale faces indeed, yet never interfere.
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