"As housemaid, ma'am, or parlour-maid. I can do my duty well in either." "But now, my girl," spoke up the Squire, turning from the window, "why need you leave Saltwater? You'd never like London after it. This is a clear, fresh, health-giving place, with beautiful sands and music on them all day long; London is nothing but smoke and fogs." Matilda shook her head. "I could not stay here, sir." "Nonsense, girl. Of course what has happened _has_ happened, and it's very distressing; and you, of all people, must feel it so: but you will forget it in time. If you don't care to go back to No. 7 before Mr. and Mrs. Peahern come home----" "I can never go back to No. 7, sir," she interrupted, a vehemence that seemed born of terror in her subdued voice. "Never in this world. I would rather die." "Stuff and nonsense!" said the Squire, impatiently. "There's nothing the matter with No. 7. What has happened in it won't happen again." "It is an unlucky house, sir; a haunted house," she contended with suppressed emotion. "And it's true that I would rather die outright than go back to live in it; for the terror of being there would slowly kill me. And so, ma'am," she added quickly to Mrs. Todhetley, evidently wishing to escape the subject, "I should like to go away altogether from Saltwater; and if you can help me to hear of a place in London, I shall be very grateful." "I will consider of it, Matilda," was the answer. And when the girl had left the room the Mater asked us what we thought about recommending her to Miss Deveen. We saw no reason against it--not but that the Squire put the girl down as an idiot on the subject of haunted houses--and Miss Deveen was written to. The upshot was, that on the next Saturday Matilda bade farewell to Saltwater and departed for Miss Deveen's, the Squire sarcastically assuring her that _that_ house had no ghosts in it. We should be leaving, ourselves, the following Tuesday. But, before that day came, it chanced that I saw Owen, the milkman. It was on the Sunday afternoon. I had taken little Joe Blair for a walk across the fields as far as Munpler (their Montpellier-by-Sea, you know), and in returning met Thomas Owen. He wore his black Sunday clothes, and looked a downright fine fellow, as usual. There was something about the man I could not help liking, in spite of the doubt attaching to him. "So Matilda Valentine is gone, sir," he observed, after we had exchanged a few sentences. "Yes, she went yesterday," I answered, putting my back against the field fence, while young Joe went careering about in chase of a yellow butterfly. "And for my part, I don't wonder at the girl's not liking to stay at Saltwater. At least, in Seaboard Terrace." "I was told this morning that Mr. and Mrs. Peahern were on their way home," he continued. "Most likely they are. They'd naturally want to look into the affair for themselves."