"Oh," said he, "you had better keep to your time. Ghosts are always regular in their visitations, but don't make any noise if you want to haunt me. I don't allow bodies in here, only spirits." He glanced at her again under his eyebrows. "You've not flesh enough to speak of," he said. "Yes, I think you may stay." So Meg stayed till the half-hour, when she took off her shoes in order to make no noise, stole from her high perch, and vanished on tip-toe. She was pathetically grateful to him for the privilege; and their friendship prospered. It was a characteristic of the old gentleman that he felt no responsibility for her. She devoured his books as she chose, and so long as she treated them carefully, he was only amused at her choice. He let her go her own way, as he let his wife; Meg worshipped him for his so-called kindness, and answered with eyes full of reverence when he addressed her; she thought his laziness patience, and his tolerance angelic. All her life she saw heroes in ordinary men and women, and was disappointed if they failed to act up to her ideal of them. It was a propensity that cost her bitter tears--but, after all, the world might be the worse without the few fools who go on believing all things of those they love. Sometimes Uncle Russelthorpe would take no notice of his "ghost"; and then, true to her part, she never spoke; sometimes, when the humour took him, he would draw her out and amuse himself with her quaint remarks. Occasionally her questions slightly discomposed him, "irresponsible" though he was. "What does Socrates mean by _this_?" the clear, unabashed voice would ask; and Uncle Russelthorpe would interrupt the reading aloud that followed, with a hasty,-- "Oh, that is meant for old men like me, not for women or girls. You needn't think about it." Fortunately, Meg had no morbid curiosity; and the ancient writers with whom her childish spirit communed left no stain on her innocence. Sir Thomas Browne fascinated her; for the twelve-year-old girl, like the visionary doctor, had a strong leaning toward the supernatural. Once Uncle Russelthorpe saw her shudder, as she bent over the big folio on her knee. "What's the matter?" he inquired. "Sir Thomas Browne says rather frightening things sometimes," said Meg, and proceeded to quote. "_But that those phantasms appear often, and do frequent cemeteries, charnel houses, and churches, it is because those are the dormitories, where the devil, like an insolent champion, beholds with pride the spoils and trophies of his victory in Adam._" "Do you think he really does do that, uncle?" "Eh? Who? Does what?" said Uncle Russelthorpe, taking snuff. "The--the devil," whispered Meg. "Does he truly walk about the cemeteries like an insolent champion?" "We all make our own Devil, as we make our own God," said Mr. Russelthorpe. "You and your friend Sir Thomas make a very terrific one, with uncommonly long horns, because you are both cursed with imagination."