But soon the
conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the
darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--
that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago;
it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a
mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris,
Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one
or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very
eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling
vividness.
"I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How
is she?"
"I tore the thing up."
"Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?"
"Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose."
"Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water
preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a
misfortune with the meat."
Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.
"So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up
the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.
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