I fancied the air before me shimmered as I swam back up, my eyes refocusing upon the attic room in which I sat; I could not resist casting my eye upward at the eaves above me, and as quickly looked away. Of course there were no names scratched there. Nor was there a trace of fiery damage upon the slanted walls. After all, it was not a Gothic chamber, but a writing room—a room where Miss Grange now regarded me, as if she watched a sleeper awaken.

“That was a tremendous tale, Miss Grange,” I said, still in its grip.

“Aye.” She folded her hands upon her lap.

“But who was the stranger?” I put my hand upon her arm. “Was he meant to be real?”

She looked down at my resting hand with a queer expression. Then, cautiously, her own hand covered mine and pressed it. “He was real.”

“What do you mean?” I looked at her, startled. “I thought you said it was a story!”

“It is a story, Maisie. One of many I wrote”—she hesitated—“but born from a single truth.”

“Something like that happened here?”

“Yes.”

“But …” My mind raced. “To whom? To relations of yours? Is that when you came to Grange House?” Here was an answer at last! Here was a part of Miss Grange’s history revealed!

“No,” she said, “I was born here.”

“Oh!” I said, confused

“I am Nell Grange.”

I raised my face to hers, horrified.

She reached forward in her chair, touching my sleeve. “You see why I told it to you now, do you not?”

I looked at her long hand upon my arm; at last I shook my head.

“There are two kinds of stories to tell.” She tapped my arm. “One of love and one of ghosts. You did not wish to hear of love, so I told you the tale of a woman in the grip of ghosts—in the dim land of half-truths.”

“The Widow Grange?” I asked. “The mother?”

“And the daughter,” she answered swiftly, and then looked direct at me. “The daughter, too.”

“But”—my voice quavered—“which daughter?”

“Maisie?” Papa’s voice came from the bottom of the attic stairs.

Miss Grange sat back quickly in her chair. “She is here with me, Ludlow Thomas.”

“Maisie?” We heard him take one step but then remain where he was at the bottom.

I rose up and went to greet him at the head of the stairs.

“Mr. Thomas,” Miss Grange called from where she still sat, “I have just finished telling your daughter one of my stories.”

“Ah,” said he, looking up at me. “What sort of story?”

“A ghost story, Papa,” I blurted, wishing he had not interrupted.

He looked a little perplexed. “Yes. Well, I know Miss Grange is full of stories,” he remarked.