"Nobody—most certainly. You may trust me as implicitly as you did Père Silas. Indeed, the doctor is perhaps the safer confessor of the two, though he has not gray hair."
"You will not laugh?"
"Perhaps I may, to do you good; but not in scorn. Lucy, I feel as a friend towards you, though your timid nature is slow to trust."
He now looked like a friend: that indescribable smile and sparkle were gone; those formidable arched curves of lip, nostril, eyebrow, were depressed; repose marked his attitude—attention sobered his aspect. Won to confidence, I told him exactly what I had seen: ere now I had narrated to him the legend of the house—whiling away with that narrative an hour of a certain mild October afternoon, when he and I rode through Bois l'Etang.
He sat and thought, and while he thought, we heard them all coming down stairs.
"Are they going to interrupt?" said he, glancing at the door with an annoyed expression.
"They will not come here," I answered; for we were in the little salon where Madame never sat in the evening, and where it was by mere chance
