"In New England? Oh dear, no!" I cried; and then he asked me a number of questions, and seemed very much interested in my account of vegetables and fruit and trees and flowers in the East. I was delighted to tell him, although I had a lurking suspicion that such a remarkable ignorance of that country was feigned. And yet his eyes, so wonderfully like Chester Mansfield's, except in expression, had a certain vacant honesty--for which, I presume, an accustomed story-teller could find a better expression--that I was obliged to believe genuine. As soon as he found that I was curious about the flora and fauna of the locality, he took great pains in bringing me specimens, and on two occasions took me out for a walk to see something that could not be brought. In this closer acquaintance I found so much that was kind and pleasant, and so many peculiar little resemblances to my dead friend--a backward toss of the head when he laughed, a frown when listening, an odd little gesture with the left hand in explaining anything--that he puzzled me more and more. Among the few books that I could find to read in the town was the "Woman in White," which I read with compunction, not having been addicted to works of fiction, and the curious resemblance between the two women made a deep impression upon me, and seemed to have a strange significance just at this time. Although I had as yet not succeeded in drawing any confidence from Charlie--who, indeed, seldom spoke of himself, and never related any past experience--a very suspicious trait I thought, I felt sure that time would unravel the dark mystery that enveloped him.