"Not exactly--or rather, it is about Winifred, as a type of so many girls nowadays. I cannot go as far as she does, and yet you see the position is very invidious. It makes _me_ seem selfish and presumptuous and--almost conceited," and Celia's face clouded over. "A very little thing began the change in me," she went on. "An almost chance remark of Eric Balderson's. Then I tried to think it out, and I wondered at myself for having agreed with Winifred as I did. For her case is a peculiarly strong one the _other_ way, I now see. Her life is before her. It is not like that of some women who have reason to feel hedged-in and stunted, even though I am beginning to think that very often it is their own fault. I am afraid a good deal comes from love of excitement, though, _of course_, there is the other side of it too. But it would take hours to tell you all I have been thinking." "And I have kept you up too long already, dear," said Louise. "Only-- Celia, I must tell you one thing--the White Weeper has been seen again." Celia started, and grew white herself. "Oh, Louise," she said, "I wish you hadn't told me to-night. You don't mind, I know, but--" "Celia, dearest, I'm so sorry," said Louise, penitently. "I never knew you minded it either. I was, in a way, glad of it. I fancied it might have some effect on Winifred, even though she only mocks at it. It _is_ curious, for it is a good while since it has been seen. And even if it is only some peculiar shadow, some atmospheric effect, as people try to make out, still--its being seen just now might make Winifred think." Celia shook her head. "She would not allow it, even if it did," she said. "It's no good telling her about it. She only gets very cross. When,"--and again she trembled a little--"when was it seen, and by whom, and where?" "Twice," said Louise, "just as usual. In the yew-tree avenue. Barbara saw it the first time, and then one of the gardeners--the new one, quite a young man. It is always new-comers who see it. And none of the people about know of it, except Barbara and Horton, and one or two of the very old ones, who _never_ speak of it. Luckily the young man told Horton of it first, and Horton bound him over not to speak of it. He told him he would be laughed at, and so he would." "How long ago?" asked Celia. "Last week. She, or it, was crying quietly, Barbara said. Not violently. So Barbara took it as just a gentle warning--not any very dreadful thing. She is quite satisfied that it was for Winifred." "I wish Winifred could see it for herself," said Celia, with a little not unnatural irritation. She was feeling both tired and frightened. "Louise, you will leave the door wide open between our rooms. I can't understand your not being frightened." "Well, anyway, dear, you know it _never_ comes into the house," said Louise, reassuringly.