"Well, well," she said, "young people's ways are different. I should never have made myself known to Mrs Waynflete, nor should I think of calling at Waynflete, even if I visited at that distance. Not that I keep up old grudges, my love, but there's a delicacy in such matters." "Cuthbert knew Mr Waynflete a long time before they knew about any former connection. I don't think it troubles them, they are great friends." "Ah!" said Miss Maxwell. "_Guy_, too, I hope--" "Cousin Catherine," said Violet, boldly; "I am sure you can tell us delightful old stories of the two families. Do! Tell us about the ghost and the Guy Waynflete who never got back in time. Have we got a ghost as well as the Waynfletes?" "Oh no, love," said Miss Maxwell, "our family was never of that kind; and indeed, when there's so much drinking and dissipation as there was among the Waynfletes, there's no need of ghosts to bring ruin. And I'm sure your brother will always remember, that it was all in the way of business my great-grandfather obtained the place." "And how did he lose it again?" asked Violet. "My dear, through business misfortunes," said Miss Maxwell, with dignity. "And Ouseley, which is only a few miles up the valley, was sold in my father's time. But I've been thinking, there are no Ouseley Maxwells left but me. And I have a few old letters which perhaps your brother ought to have." "I'm sure Cuthbert would be delighted to come and see them and you," said Kitty. "Oh no, Cousin Catherine," interposed Violet; "do let us see them. We can tell Cuth, or give them to him; but old family letters, especially about Waynflete and the ghosts, would be quite too awfully jolly." Miss Maxwell looked at the blooming girl with her outspoken voice and her straight-looking eyes, her sailor hat, and her boyish jacket, as if she had never thought of any one like her before; she sighed and looked solemn, but pulled out the drawer of the card-table, and took therefrom, with great mystery, two or three yellow-looking letters, an old Prayer-book, and a very dirty pack of cards, and on one of these she pointed out a dark stain. "My loves," she whispered; "this was stained on that fatal night with Squire Waynflete's life blood." Violet became suddenly serious, and Florella could hardly help crying out in protest against touching these things which seemed to her full of a living trouble. Miss Maxwell opened the Prayer-book which was bound in red morocco, most delicately tooled and gilt. On the title-page was written "Margaret Waynflete" and the dates of the births of her two sons. "Guy Waynflete, born June 19th, 1760," and then "My Pretty Baby;" then "Godfrey Waynflete, 1764," and then in the same pointed, careful hand-- "The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him." Florella could not speak a word, and when the book was handed to her to look at, she laid her hand on it with a soft, reverent touch.