secure in my almost inveterate absence, it was her nightly practice
to take a lonely airing. There was no trap, in truth, because I
had had no suspicion. At first I took for granted that the words
she uttered expressed discomfiture at my arrival; but as she
repeated them--I had not caught them clearly--I had the surprise
of hearing her say, "Oh, dear, I'm so very glad you've come!"
She and her aunt had in common the property of unexpected speeches.
She came out of the arbor almost as if she were going to throw
herself into my arms.

I hasten to add that she did nothing of the kind; she did not even
shake hands with me. It was a gratification to her to see me
and presently she told me why--because she was nervous when she
was out-of-doors at night alone. The plants and bushes looked
so strange in the dark, and there were all sorts of queer sounds--
she could not tell what they were--like the noises of animals.
She stood close to me, looking about her with an air of greater security
but without any demonstration of interest in me as an individual.
Then I guessed that nocturnal prowlings were not in the least her habit,
and I was also reminded (I had been struck with the circumstance
in talking with her before I took possession) that it was impossible
to overestimate her simplicity.

"You speak as if you were lost in the backwoods," I said, laughing.
"How you manage to keep out of this charming place when you have only three
steps to take to get into it is more than I have yet been able to discover.
You hide away mighty well so long as I am on the premises, I know;
but I had a hope that you peeped out a little at other times.
You and your poor aunt are worse off than Carmelite nuns in their cells.
Should you mind telling me how you exist without air, without exercise,