at's why I wanted to show it to you. It's
all nonsense about the ghost. I dare say the Roundheads murdered the
ghost there--I mean the woman the ghost's the ghost of--but she wouldn't
appear to me. Ghosts never do. Did you ever see one?... But you wouldn't
be in the house. You would be at a sweet little cottage just close,
which is simply one mass of roses. You and Dolly. And Mrs. Burr." Mrs.
Burr was thrown into attend to the _menage_.

Old Mrs. Picture did not quite know what to say. She had found out
instinctively that perpetual gratitude had its drawbacks for the
receiver as well as the giver. So she said, diffidently:--"Wouldn't it
cost a great deal of money?"

"Cost nothing," said Gwen. "The place belongs to my father. It's all
very well for people, that mind ghosts, not to live in it. But I don't
see why that should apply to Mr. Torrens and me."

"Doesn't he mind ghosts?"

"Not the least." She was going to say more, but was stopped, by danger
ahead. The chances of his seeing, or not seeing, a ghost, could hardly
be discussed. The old lady probably felt this too, for she seemed to
keep something back.

Her next words showed what it had been, in an odd way. "Is he not to
see?" she said, speaking almost as if afraid of the sound of her own
words.

Gwen's answer came in a hurried undertone:--"Oh, I dare not think so. He
_will_ see! He _must_ see!" Her distress was in her fingers, that she
could not keep still, as well as in her voice. She rose suddenly,
crossed the room to the window, and stood looking out on the darkness.

Presently she turned round, esteeming herself mistress of her strength
again, and hoping for the serenity of her companion's old face, and its
still white hair, to help her. Old Maisie could not shed a tear now on
her own behalf. But ... to think of the appalling sorrow of this
glorious girl! Gwen did not return to her seat; but preferred a
footstool, at the feet of the dear old lady, whose voice was
heart-broken.

"Oh, my dear--my dear! That he should never see _you_!... never!...
never!" The golden head with all its wealth was in her lap, and the
silver of her own was white against it as she spoke. No such tears had
yet fallen from Gwen's eyes as these that mixed with this old woman's,
the convict's relict--the convict's mother--from Sapps Court.

An effort against herself, to choke them back, and an ignominious
failure! A short breakdown, another effort, and a success! Gwen rose
abo