y 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.

Often, often in the days that were to come I had rather be of the
company of the ghosts than to endure the things I had to endure.

CHAPTER III

THE CREAMERY

It was through my godmother that I went to learn the butter-making at
the Creamery, and since it was strange that my grandparents should have
permitted me to go, I must explain how it was that Miss Champion came to
have so much influence with them and over our affairs generally, and who
the lady was.

She was our nearest neighbour, at Castle Clody, the beautiful old house
which stands on the side of the river Clody, overlooking the falls. She
had been an orphan almost from her birth, and had grown up as
independent and able to manage her affairs as any man.

She was a great sportswoman even in our country of such, and being
exposed to all manner of wind and weathers, her face had come to have a
weather-beaten look. She had very beautiful grey eyes and a deal of
black, silken hair, and she was unusually tall. Even the weather, when
it had roughened and tanned her complexion, had but given her a new
charm to my mind, for she looked as wholesome and sweet and out-of-doors
as the weather itself. Yet people said she was plain. I could not see
it, but then she was too good to me and I loved her.

I remember that usually she wore grey tweed tailor-made gowns, in which
her beautiful figure showed to advantage, unless