"This house is supposed to be haunted," said Beatrix from her corner. "Isn't that so, James?" She turned to the young man.
"It is," he answered, laughing; "but no one has ever seen or heard anything yet, though mother and I have lived here for years."
While he spoke his mother entered the room and begged for a song. Miss Marlow was a brilliant pianist, and James leaned over her, turning the leaves of her music. But all through the pauses of the tunes Beatrix sat silent, thinking: "I will frighten her to-night. How shall I frighten her?" She could hardly reply to the questions of the guest, or the good-natured attempts of James to draw her into the conversation. When Miss Marlow left the room to fetch some music she had forgotten, James came to Beatrix's side, and spoke to her.
"What do you think of our visitor?" was the foolish question he asked.
Beatrix flashed an attempt at gaiety, but only succeeded in being bitter.
"You seem to like her," she said, then flushed under his amused gaze. "She is painted and artificial," she added.
"You are cross to-night, Trixy," James an-
