The Girl and the Rabbit

"Those are unmistakable snowflakes, sir," said Bates
from the window. "We're in for winter now."

It was undeniably snow; great lazy flakes of it were
crowding down upon the wood.

Bates had not mentioned Morgan or referred even remotely
to the pistol-shot of my first night, and he had
certainly conducted himself as a model servant. The
man-of-all-work at St. Agatha's, a Scotchman named
Ferguson, had visited him several times, and I had surprised
them once innocently enjoying their pipes and
whisky and water in the kitchen.

"They are having trouble at the school, sir," said
Bates from the hearth.

"The young ladies running a little wild, eh?"

"Sister Theresa's ill, sir. Ferguson told me last
night!"

"No doubt Ferguson knows," I declared, moving the
papers about on my desk, conscious, and not ashamed of
it, that I enjoyed these dialogues with Bates. I occasionally
entertained the idea that he would some day
brain me as I sat dining upon the viands which he prepared
with so much skill; or perhaps he would poison
me, that being rather more in his line of business and
perfectly easy of accomplishment; but the house was
bare and lonely and he was a resource.

"So Sister Theresa's ill!" I began, seeing that Bates
had nearly finished, and glancing with something akin
to terror upon the open pages of a dreary work on English
cathedrals that had put me to sleep the day before.

"She's been quite uncomfortable, sir; but they hope
to see her out in a few days!"

"That's good; I'm glad to hear it."