She was so thankful to have grown
up in Oldfields that she could not find it in her heart to rail at the
fate that had kept her away from Dunport; but the years of silence
had been very unlovely in her aunt.
She wondered, before she went to sleep that night, where her father's
room had been, and thought she would ask Miss Prince in the morning.
The windows were open, and the June air blew softly in, and sometimes
swayed the curtains of the bed. There was a scent of the sea and of
roses, and presently up the quiet street came the sound of footsteps
and young voices. Nan said to herself that some party had been late in
breaking up, and felt her heart thrill with sympathy. She had been
dwelling altogether in the past that evening, and she liked to hear
the revelers go by. But as they came under the windows she heard one
say, "I should be afraid of ghosts in that best room of Miss
Prince's," and then they suddenly became quiet, as if they had seen
that the windows were open, and Nan first felt like a stranger, but
next as if this were all part of the evening's strange experiences,
and as if these might be her father's young companions, and she must
call to them as they went by.
The next morning both the hostess and her guest waked early, and were
eager for the time when they should see each other again. The beauty
and quiet of the Sunday morning were very pleasant, and Nan stood for
some minutes at the dining-room windows, looking out on the small
paved courtyard, and the flowers and green leaves beyond the garden
gate.
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