"And you for old memories' sake yet aid his widow?" the lady murmured. "That is like you, John."
There was another silence, and the fire crackled more loudly than ever.
"And are you sorry that I come again, in a worse body, John, strange and time-ruined?"
"Sorry?" echoed Sir John; and, ungallant as it was, he hesitated a moment before replying: "No, faith! But there are some ghosts that will not easily bear raising, and you have raised one."
"We have summoned up no very fearful spectre, I think," replied the lady; "at most, no worse than a pallid, gentle spirit that speaks--to me, at least--of a boy and a girl who loved each other and were very happy a great while ago."
"Are you come hither to seek that boy?" asked the knight, and chuckled, though not merrily. "The boy that went mad and rhymed of you in those far-off dusty years? He is quite dead, my lady; he was drowned, mayhap, in a cup of wine. Or he was slain, perchance, by a few light women. I know not how he died. But he is quite dead, my lady, and I had not been haunted by his ghost until to-day."
He stared at the floor as he ended; then choked, and broke into a fit of coughing which unromantic chance brought on just now, of all times.
"He was a dear boy," she said, presently; "a boy who loved a young maid very truly; a boy that found the maid's father too strong and shrewd for desperate young lovers--Eh, how long ago it seems, and what a flood of tears the poor maid shed at being parted from that dear boy!"
"Faith!" admitted Sir John, "the rogue had his good points."
"Ah, John, you have not forgotten, I know," the lady said, looking up into his face, "and, you will believe me that I am very heartily sorry for the pain I brought into your life?"
"My wounds heal easily," said Sir John.
"For though my dear dead father was too wise for us, and knew it was for the best that I should not accept your love, believe me, John, I always knew the value of that love, and have held it an honor that any woman must prize."
"Dear lady," the knight suggested, with a slight grimace, "the world is not altogether of your opinion."
"I know not of the world," she said; "for we live away from it. But we have heard of you ever and anon; I have your life quite letter-perfect for these forty years or more."