ie, leastways from wot you describes, which it
is a hempty house all the same, though I can't say as I've heard no
sounds, not very distinct that is, myself."

The gardener may have been anxious to hedge a bit, for fear of a
scolding from headquarters, but his cryptic remarks pleased the children
greatly, because it showed, they thought, that they knew more than the
gardener did.

Thus the Empty House remained an object of somewhat dreadful delight,
lending a touch of wonderland to that part of the lane where it stood,
and forming the background for many an enchanting story over the nursery
fire in winter-time. It appealed vividly to their imaginations,
especially to Jimbo's. Its dark windows, without blinds, were sometimes
full of faces that retreated the moment they were looked at. That
tangled ivy did not grow over the roof so thickly for nothing; and those
high elms on the western side had not been planted years ago in a
semicircle without a reason. Thus, at least, the children argued, not
knowing exactly what they meant, nor caring much, so long as they proved
to their own satisfaction that the place was properly haunted, and
therefore worthy of their attention.

It was natural they should lead Miss Lake in that direction on one of
their first walks together, and it was natural, too, that she should at
once discover from their manner that the place was of some importance to
them.

"What a queer-looking old house," she remarked, when they turned the
corner of the lane and it came into view. "Almost a ruin, isn't it?"

The children exchanged glances. A "ruin" did not seem the right sort of
word at all; and, besides, was a little disrespectful. Also, they were
not sure whether the new governess ought to be told everything so soon.
She had not really won their confidence yet. After a slight pause--and
a children's pause is the most eloquent imaginable--Nixie, being the
eldest, said in a stiff little voice: "It's the Empty House, Miss Lake.
_We_ know it very well indeed."

"It looks empty," observed Miss Lake briskly.

"But it's not a ruin, of course," added the child, with the cold dignity
of chosen spokesman.

"Oh!" said the governess, quite missing the point. She was talking
lightly on the surface of things, wholly ignorant of the depths beneath
her feet, intuition with her having always been sternly repressed.

"It's a gamekeeper's cottage, or something like that, I suppose," she
said.

"Oh, no; it isn'