But you must be tired after all those miles?
I'll take you up to the house and give you some tea."

"I'm not at all tired, thank you," I answered. "I came along very
leisurely, enjoying the walk. Don't let me take you from your game."

"Oh, that's all right," she said carelessly, throwing her putter to
the boy. "I've had quite enough; besides, it's getting towards dusk,
and once the sun sets, it's soon dark in these regions. You've never
seen Ravensdene Court before?"

"Never," I replied, glancing at the house, which stood some two or three
hundred yards before us. "It seems to be a very romantically-situated,
picturesque old place. I suppose you know all its nooks and corners?"

She gave her shoulders--squarely-set, well-developed ones--a little
shrug, and shook her head.

"No, I don't," she answered. "I never saw it before last month. It's
all that you say--picturesque and romantic enough. And queer! I
believe it's haunted."

"That adds to its charm," I remarked with a laugh. "I hope I shall
have the pleasure of seeing the ghost."

"I don't!" she said. "That is, I hope I shan't. The house is odd
enough without that! But--you wouldn't be afraid?"

"Would you?" I asked, looking more closely at her.

"I don't know," she replied. "You'll understand more when you see the
place. There's a very odd atmosphere about it. I think something must
have happened there, some time. I'm not a coward, but, really, after
the daylight's gone----"

"You're adding to its charms!" I interrupted. "Everything sounds
delightful!"

She looked at me half-inquiringly, and then smiled a little.

"I believe you're pulling my leg," she said. "However--we'll see. But
you don't look as if you would be afraid--and you're not a bit like
what I thought you'd be, either."

"What did you think I should be?" I asked, amused at her candour.

"Oh, I don't know--a queer, snuffy, bald-pated old man, like Mr.
Cazalette," she replied. "Booky, and papery, and that sort of thing.
And you're quite--something else--and young!"

"The frost of thirty winters have settled on me," I remarked with mock
seriousness.

"They must have been black frosts, then!" she retorted. "No!--you're a
surprise. I'm sure Uncle Francis is expecting a venerable, dry-as-dust
sort of man."

"I hope he won't be disappointed," I said. "But I never told him I was
dry as dust, or snuffy, or bald----"

"It's your reputation," she said quickly. "People don't expect to find
s