"'This is the oldest part of the house,' she said, as we sat on the
bed resting from our labours, for the day was sultry; 'and it breaks
off here in an odd way. There are no rooms beyond this. There were
some that matched the other side of the house, but they were pulled
down.'

"'Why?' we asked.

"'Well, there's a story about it, in the family,' said Miss Lucy,
mysteriously. 'But it's a ghost story. I'll tell you, if you like. But
some people are afraid of ghost stories. I'm not; but if you are, I
won't tell it.'

"Of course we declared we were not afraid. Sitting there together, on
a sunny summer's afternoon, perhaps we were not.

"'It's years and years ago,' began Miss Lucy; 'you know the place has
belonged to another branch of our family for generations. Well, at
last it came down to an old Mr. Bartlett, who had one daughter, who,
of course, was to be the heiress. Well, she fell in love with a man
whose name I forget, but he was of inferior family, and very queer
character; and her father would not hear of it, and swore that if she
married him he would disinherit her. She would have married the man in
spite of this, though; but what he wanted was her money; so, when he
found that the old man was quite resolute, and that there was no
chance of his dying soon, he murdered him.'

"We both exclaimed; for this sudden catastrophe fairly took away our
breath. Miss Lucy's nerves were not sensitive, however, and she
rattled on.