Chapter VII.

The Stapletons of Mary Pitt House.

The fresh beauty of the following morning did something to a face from our minds, the

grim and gray impression which had been left upon both of us by our first experience of

Baskerville Hall.

Esser Henry and I sat at breakfast, the sunlight flooded in through the high-mollioned windows

during watery patches of color from the coats of arms which covered them.

The dark paneling glowed like bronze in the golden rays, and it was hard to realize

that this was indeed the chamber which had struck such a gloom into our souls upon the evening

before.

I guess it is ourselves and not the house that we have to blame, said the baronette.

We were tired with our journey and chilled by our drive, so we took a grave view of the

place.

Now we are fresh and well, so it is all cheerful once more.

And yet it was not entirely a question of imagination, I answered.

Did you, for example, happen to hear someone a woman I think sobbing in the night?

That is curious, for I did when I was half asleep, fancy that I heard something of the

sort.

I waited quite a time, but there was no more of it, so I concluded that it was all the dream.

I heard it distinctly, and I am sure it was really the sob of a woman.

We must ask about this right away.

He rang the bell and asked Barrymore whether he could account for her experience.

...