"It makes one feel very small," said Etta, turning to the
breakfast-table--"at no time a pleasant sensation. Do you know," she
said, after a little pause, "I think it probable that I shall become
very fond of Osterno, but I wish it was nearer to civilization."
Paul looked pleased. Steinmetz had a queer expression on his face.
Maggie murmured something about one's surroundings making but little
difference to one's happiness, and the subject was wisely shelved.
After breakfast Steinmetz withdrew.
"Now," said Paul, "shall I show you the old place, you and Maggie?"
Etta signified her readiness, but Maggie said that she had letters to
write, that Etta could show her the castle another time, when the men
were out shooting, perhaps.
"But," said Etta, "I shall do it horribly badly. They are not my
ancestors, you know. I shall attach the stories to the wrong people, and
locate the ghost in the wrong room. You will be wise to take Paul's
guidance."
"No, thank you," replied Maggie, quite firmly and frankly. "I feel
inclined to write; and the feeling is rare, so I must take advantage of
it."
The girl looked at her cousin with something in her honest blue eyes
that almost amounted to wonder. Etta was always surprising her. There
was a whole gamut of feeling, an octave of callow, half-formed girlish
instincts, of which Etta seemed to be deprived.
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