'
There was something indescribably winning, it seemed to me, in Cousin
Monica. Old as she was, she seemed to me so girlish, compared with those
slow, unexceptionable young ladies whom I had met in my few visits at the
county houses. By this time my shyness was quite gone, and I was on the
most intimate terms with her.
'You know a great deal about her, Cousin Monica, but you won't tell me.'
'Nothing I should like better, if I were at liberty, little rogue; but you
know, after all, I don't really say whether I _do_ know anything about
her or not, or what sort of knowledge it is. But tell me what you mean by
ghosty, and all about it.'
So I recounted my experiences, to which, so far from laughing at me, she
listened with very special gravity.
'Does she write and receive many letters?'
I had seen her write letters, and supposed, though I could only recollect
one or two, that she received in proportion.
'Are _you_ Mary Quince?' asked my lady cousin.
Mary was arranging the window-curtains, and turned, dropping a courtesy
affirmatively toward her.
'You wait on my little cousin, Miss Ruthyn, don't you?'
'Yes,'m,' said Mary, in her genteelest way.
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