‘Ah, to think that she should have happened to find her way there that night, close as we keep her! My door is always locked, and she can’t get out into the house without coming through this room; but I suppose that night I must have forgotten to take the key out of the door and put it under my pillow as I do mostly. And the poor child went roaming about the house by moonlight. That’s an old trick of hers. The room where you sleep was her room once upon a time, and she always goes there if she gets the chance. It was unlucky that it should have happened the first night of your being here!’ ‘She is very fond of you, I suppose,’ said Maurice, anxious to hear more of one in whom he felt a strong interest. ‘Yes, I think she likes me better than any one else now.’ ‘Better even than her own mother?’ ‘Why, yes, she does not get on very well with her mother; she has odd fancies about her.’ ‘I thought as much. I have heard her speak of a child. That was a mere delusion, I conclude.’ ‘Yes, that was one of her fancies.’ ‘Has Mrs. Trevanard never consulted any medical man upon the state of her daughter’s mind?’ ‘Medical man,’ repeated the old woman, dubiously. ‘You mean a doctor, I suppose? Yes; Dr. Mitchell, from Seacomb, has seen the poor child many a time, and given her physic for this, that, and the other, but he says her mind will never be any different. There’s no use worrying about that. He gives her stuff for her appetite sometimes, for she has but a poor appetite at the best. She’s sorely wasted away from the figure she was once upon a time.’ ‘She was a very beautiful girl, I have heard from Martin.’ ‘Yes, I never saw a handsomer girl than Muriel when she came from school. It was all along of sending her to boarding school things went wrong.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘Oh dear me, sir, you mustn’t listen to my rambling talk, I’m a weak old woman, and I dare say my mind goes astray sometimes, just like Muriel’s.’ A light step sounded on the narrow stairs, a door in the paneling opened, and the figure Maurice had first seen in the spectral light of the moon came towards the hearth, and crouched down at the grandmother’s knees. A slender figure, dressed in a light-coloured gown which looked white in the uncertain flare of the fire, a pale worn face, a mass of tangled hair. Muriel took the old woman’s withered hand, laid her hollow cheek against it, and kissed it fondly. ‘Granny,’ she murmured, ‘patient, loving granny. Muriel’s only friend.’ Mrs. Trevanard smoothed the dark hair with her tremulous hand. ‘How tangled it is, Muriel! Why won’t you let me brush it, and keep it nice for you? My poor old hands can do that without the help of eyes.’