Davies. He said he had, but seemed anxious to
assure me that he was a Chester man and 'not a Taffy.' She had died,
he told me, not long since. But he had known more of her niece,
Winifred Wynne (or, as most people called her, Winifred Davies); for,
said he, 'she was a queer kind of outdoor creature that everybody
knew.--as fond of the rain and mist as sensible folk are fond of
sunshine.'
'Where did she live?' I inquired.
'You must have passed the very door,' said the man. And then he
indicated a pretty little cottage by the roadside which I had passed,
not far from the lake. Mrs. Davies (he told me) had lived there with
her niece till the aunt died.
'Then you knew Winifred Wynne?' I said. There was to me a romantic
kind of interest about a man who had seen Winifred in Wales.
'Knew her well,' said he. 'She was a Carnarvon gal--tremenjus fond o'
the sea--and a rare pretty gal she was.'
'Pretty gal she _is_, you might ha' said, Mr. Blyth,' a woman's voice
exclaimed from the settle beneath the window. 'She's about in these
parts at this very moment, though Jim Burton there says it's her
ghose.
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