with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. 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?”