“Oh, he _did_,” Mrs. Grose assented: “it was the way he liked everyone!” She had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. “I mean that’s _his_ way—the master’s.” I was struck. “But of whom did you speak first?” She looked blank, but she colored. “Why, of _him_.” “Of the master?” “Of who else?” There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and I merely asked what I wanted to know. “Did _she_ see anything in the boy—?” “That wasn’t right? She never told me.” I had a scruple, but I overcame it. “Was she careful—particular?” Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. “About some things—yes.” “But not about all?” Again she considered. “Well, miss—she’s gone. I won’t tell tales.” “I quite understand your feeling,” I hastened to reply; but I thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: “Did she die here?” “No—she went off.” I don’t know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose’s that struck me as ambiguous. “Went off to die?” Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. “She was taken ill, you mean, and went home?” “She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We had then a young woman—a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and _she_ took the children altogether for the interval. But our young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was expecting her I heard from the master that she was dead.” I turned this over. “But of what?” “He never told me! But please, miss,” said Mrs. Grose, “I must get to my work.” III