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.
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