said, shaking his head,
"No, no, Cornel. Wha wad set themsels up for a laughin'-stock to a' the
country-side, making a wark about a ghost? Naebody believes in ghosts. It
bid to be the wind in the trees, the last gentleman said, or some effec'
o' the water wrastlin' among the rocks. He said it was a' quite easy
explained; but he gave up the hoose. And when you cam, Cornel, we were
awfu' anxious you should never hear. What for should I have spoiled the
bargain and hairmed the property for no-thing?"

"Do you call my child's life nothing?" I said in the trouble of the
moment, unable to restrain myself. "And instead of telling this all to
me, you have told it to him,--to a delicate boy, a child unable to sift
evidence or judge for himself, a tender-hearted young creature--"

I was walking about the room with an anger all the hotter that I felt it
to be most likely quite unjust. My heart was full of bitterness against
the stolid retainers of a family who were content to risk other people's
children and comfort rather than let a house be empty. If I had been
warned I might have taken precautions, or left the place, or sent Roland
away, a hundred things which now I could not do; and here I was with my
boy in a brain-fever, and his life, the most precious life on earth,
hanging in the balance, dependent on whether or not I could get to the
reason of a commonplace ghost-story! I paced about in high wrath, not
seeing what I was to do; for to take Roland away, even if he were able to
travel, would not settle his agitated mind; and I feared even that a
scientific explanation of refracted sound or reverberation, or any other
of the easy certainties with which we elder men are silenced, would have
very little effect upon the boy.

"Cornel," said Jarvis solemnly, "and _she'll_ bear me witness,--the young
gentleman never heard a word from me--no, nor from either groom or
gardener; I'll gie ye my word for that. In the first place, he's no a lad
that invites ye to talk. There are some that are, and some that arena.
Some will draw ye on, till ye've tellt them a' the clatter of the toun,
and a' ye ken, and whiles mair. But Maister Roland, his mind's fu' of his
books. He's aye civil and kind, and a fine lad; but no that sort. And ye
see it's for a' our interest, Cornel, that you should stay at Brentwood.
I took it upon me mysel to pass the word,--'No a syllable to Maister
Roland, nor to the young leddies--no a syllable.' The women-servant