bed early, and don't leave her alone--do you see?--and--and remember to
bolt the door, Mary Quince, and I shall be sending a little Christmas-box
to my cousin, and I shan't forget you. Good-night.'

And with a pleasant courtesy Mary fluttered out of the room.




CHAPTER XII

_A CURIOUS CONVERSATION_


We each had another cup of tea, and were silent for awhile.

'We must not talk of ghosts now. You are a superstitious little woman, you
know, and you shan't be frightened.'

And now Cousin Monica grew silent again, and looking briskly around the
room, like a lady in search of a subject, her eye rested on a small oval
portrait, graceful, brightly tinted, in the French style, representing
a pretty little boy, with rich golden hair, large soft eyes, delicate
features, and a shy, peculiar expression.

'It is odd; I think I remember that pretty little sketch, very long ago. I
think I was then myself a child, but that is a much older style of dress,
and of wearing the hair, too, than I ever saw. I am just forty-nine now. Oh
dear, yes; that is a good while before I was _born_. What a strange, pretty
little boy! a mysterious little fellow. Is he quite sincere, I wonder? What