CHAPTER VII Busied with her “penance” of quilting, the next day, Thurley was summoned by a peremptory rap at the side door. It was Ali Baba, his shabby silk hat laid across his heart after the fashion of pictures of cavaliers which he had chanced to see in old-time novels. “I’ve an invitation from the queen,” he said with a bit of dry humor. “After she heard you sing, she wants to tell you how you please her. Don’t refuse or we’ll all be beheaded in the tower! Thurley dear, I’m a silly old man—what I mean is that Abigail Clergy wants you to drive with her. She won’t harm you—she’s as sane as you or I—only she heard you sing and she liked it. For land’s sake and Mrs. Davis, don’t refuse! We’d lose the one chance of maybe makin’ her be her own self again. Never mind a hat; just go out to the coupé and drive about with her. Let her talk to you!” The hand which held the silk hat trembled from excitement. To have lived with a haunted creature for over thirty years and suddenly have that haunted creature express a normal desire was nothing less than terrifying to the two aged servitors. “Me? Drive with Abby Clergy? Ali Baba, sure it’s not a joke? Come? Of course I will,” and with no more thought for her “penance,” Thurley danced out of the house, down the flagstone walk and with an abrupt, determined hand opened the door of the curtained coupé. Trembling with excitement herself, Miss Clergy managed to extend her hand. “I wanted to tell you something, Thurley Precore,” she began. “Ali Baba—an hour’s drive—not too fast!” this a discreet hint to Ali Baba that eavesdropping was not to be tolerated, and, as Melba stalked down the road, injured to the last buckle of her shining harness at the extra weight thrust upon her, Thurley turned an unaffectedly delighted face to Miss Clergy and said, “What in the world is it? You’ve no idea how larky it is to drive with you—I’ve made up stories about you ever since I found my way into your house years ago—the side way—and you ran after me,” her clear, musical laugh seemed to clear the atmosphere of excited unrest. “So it was you! Strange ... never mind myself—tell me, have you always sung like this?” “Of course! I can’t help it any more than to breathe.” “You have no relatives—no one nearer than Betsey Pilrig?” Thurley admitted sorrowfully that she had not. “Nor money?” “Not a penny! But I’m the happiest pauper alive.”