A solitary breakfast for me. Mr. Chandos remained in his room, nursing his foot; Lady Chandos was in hers. As I was eating it, Hill came in.

"Will you transact a commission for my lady, this morning, Miss Hereford?"

"With great pleasure," I answered, starting up with alacrity, glad that they were going to give me something to do at last. "What is it?"

"Well, it's nothing that you need be in such a hurry for as to lose your breakfast," grimly responded Hill. "My lady is sick, Mr. Chandos is disabled, I can't be spared; so we want you to go to Marden, and make some inquiries."

"Oh, yes; I will go anywhere. It is very dull here, by myself all day. Is it about Mrs. Penn?"

"It is about Mrs. Penn," returned Hill, in her stiffest manner. "You will have to see Mrs. Howard, the lady she referred to, and ask certain questions of her, which will be written down for you."

"Am I to go by train, Hill?"

"My lady would not send you alone by train. Her own carriage will be round by ten o'clock to convey you to Marden."

At ten the carriage drew up. I was quite ready for it. Vain girl! I had put on one of my prettiest dresses, and a white bonnet; my chestnut hair rippled back from my brow, and the pink flowers mingled with it. I had grown fairer in complexion than I was as a child, and my cheeks wore generally a soft bright colour.

Stepping in, I was bowled away, in the same state that my lady would have gone. The fine barouche had its handsome hammercloth, its baronet's badge on the panels, its attendant servants. I was born to this social state, if I had not been brought up in it, and it was very delightful. The old lodge-keeper touched his hat to me as we passed through the gates to the smooth road. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the leafy trees were dancing.

"Now mind!" Hill had said to me. "All you have to do is to put by word of mouth these questions written down for you, and to take strict note of the answers, so as to report them accurately when you come back. They are but ordinary questions: or else you would not be sent. Be discreet, young lady, and don't talk on your own score."

I opened the paper and read over the questions as we went long. Simple queries, as Hill had said; just such as are put when a dependent, whether lady or servant, is being engaged. The address given was "Mrs. Charles Howard, number nine, King Street, Marden." And there the carriage drew up. Carrying the paper, I was shown upstairs to the drawing-rooms, sending in my name—"Miss Hereford."

Handsome rooms, two communicating. A lady, very much dressed in elaborate morning costume, rose to receive me. I found it was Mrs. Howard, and entered upon my queries.

They were most satisfactorily answered. A higher character than she gave to Mrs. Penn could not be tendered. Mrs. Penn was faithful, good, discreet, and trustworthy; very capable in all ways, and invaluable in a sick room. Her regret at parting with her was great, but she, Mrs. Howard, was going to Brussels on a long visit to her married daughter, and it would be inconvenient to take Mrs. Penn. She should be so glad to see her settled elsewhere comfortably, before leaving England.

So voluble was Mrs. Howard, saying ten times more than she need have said, that I could not get in a word. I should have liked her better had she been less flourishing in speech and not worn quite so many ornaments. As soon as I could speak, I asked if I might see Mrs. Penn, such having been Hill's instructions to me, in case the references proved satisfactory.

Mrs. Howard rang for her, and she came in. She wore a bright violet gown of some soft material; her red hair was disposed in waving bands low on her forehead and taken back underneath her cap. Had I seen her anywhere in my past life? The expression of her full face when her eyes were turned on me seemed so familiar: striking upon the mind like something we may have seen in a dream; but when I examined her features I could not trace in them any remembrance. Perhaps I was mistaken. We do see faces that resemble others as we go through the world.

I told her she was to proceed with as little delay as possible to Chandos, to hold an interview with its mistress; when she would probably be engaged.

My mission over, I entered the carriage to be driven home again. We had nearly reached Chandos when I missed my pocket-handkerchief. It was one that had been embroidered for me by a favourite schoolfellow at Miss Barlieu's, Marguerite Van Blumm, and I valued it for her sake. Besides, I only possessed two handsome handkerchiefs in the world: that, and one I had bought in Paris. I hoped I had left it at Mrs. Howard's, and that Mrs. Penn would bring it to me.

To my great amazement, when I got home, I found Mrs. Penn was already there. Not engaged: Hill was waiting to hear my report of what Mrs. Howard said. Mr. Chandos laughed at the expression of my face.

"The triumph of steam over carriage wheels, Miss Hereford. She took a train immediately, and a fly on at Hetton station."

The fly was outside the windows as he spoke; it had drawn away from the door to allow the carriage to set me down. I did not see Mrs. Penn; she was waiting in the large drawing-room; and I did not like to make the fuss to go to her and ask about my handkerchief.

But a quarter of an hour, and it was driving her back to Hetton. She was engaged; and had agreed to enter that same evening. She came, quite punctually. But for a day or two afterwards it so fell out that I did not see her.

The first time we met was one morning, when I was finishing breakfast. Mrs. Penn came into the oak-parlour with her bonnet and shawl on. She had been out of doors.

"I don't know what your grim old butler will say to me, but I have forestalled him with the postman," she began, without any other greeting. "Unless I take a turn for ten minutes in the open air of a morning, I feel stifled for the day: the postman came up while I was in the broad walk, and I took the letters from him. Only two," she continued, regarding the addresses in a free and easy sort of manner scarcely becoming her position. "Both foreign letters," she went on in a running comment. "One is for Harry Chandos, Esquire; the other for Miss Hereford. That is yourself, I think."

"I am Miss Hereford."

"It is a pretty name," she observed, looking at me: "almost as pretty as you are. Do you remember in the school history of England we are told of the banishment of Lord Hereford by his sovereign, and how it broke his heart? Is your Christian name as pretty?"

"It is Anne."

"Anne Hereford! A nice name altogether. Where do your friends live?"

Instead of answering, I rose and rang the bell for the butler; who came in.

"The letters are here, Hickens," I said, putting the one for Mr. Chandos in his hand, while I kept mine. Hickens, with a dubious air, looked alternately at me, and the letters, as if wondering how they came there. I explained.

"Mrs. Penn brought them in. She tells me she met the postman in the broad walk, and took them from him."

"Please to let the man bring the letters to the house, ma'am, should you meet him again," Hickens respectfully observed, turning to Mrs. Penn. "My lady never allows any one to take them from the postman: he brings them into the hall, and delivers them into my hand. Once when Miss Emily was at home, she took them from the man in the grounds, and my lady was very much displeased with her. Her ladyship is exceedingly strict in the matter."

"How particular they seem about their letters!" exclaimed Mrs. Penn in an undertone, as Hickens departed with his master's.

"Many families are so. Mr. Paler was worse than this, for he always liked to take the letters from the facteur himself."

"Who is Mr. Paler?" she questioned.

"I have been living as governess in his family in Paris. Mrs. Penn, may I ask you whether I left a handkerchief at Mrs. Howard's the day I went there?"

"Not that I know of. I did not hear of it. Have you lost one?"

"Yes; one that I valued: it was a keepsake. I know I had it in the carriage in going to Marden, but I remember nothing of it subsequently. When I got home I missed it."

"You most likely dropped it in stepping out of the carriage."

"Yes, I fear so."

She quitted the room with a remark that her time was up. I opened my letter, which was in Emily de Mellissie's handwriting; and read as follows:—

"The idea of your making all this fuss! Though I suppose it is mamma's fault, not yours. She is neither poison nor a tiger, and therefore will not do the house irretrievable damage. It's not my fault if Alfred has taken this gastric fever, and I am detained here. I'd rather be in the wilds of Africa, I do assure you, scampering over the sandy desert on a mad pony, than condemned to be pent up in sickchambers. Fancy what it is! Alfred reduced to a skeleton, in his bed on alternate days, taking nothing but tisane, and that sort of slops, and lamenting that he wont get over it: Madame de Mellissie in her bed, groaning under an agonizing attack of sciatica; and I doing duty between the two. It's dreadful. I should come off to Chandos to-morrow and leave them till they were better, but that the world would call me hard-hearted, and any other polite name it could lay its tongue to. Every second day he seems nearly as well as I am, and says I shall be sure to start for Chandos on the next. When the next comes, there he is, down again with fever. And that is my present fate!—which is quite miserable enough without your reproaching me for being thoughtless, and all the rest of it. How I should get through the dreary days but for some novels and a few callers, I don't know; but the novels are not exciting, and the visitors are stupid. Paris is empty just now, and as dull as a dungeon. Don't go worrying me with any more letters reflecting on my 'prudence,' or I shall send them back to you. If mamma orders you to write, tell her plainly that you wont. Pray who is Anne Hereford, that she should be allowed to disturb the peace of Chandos? Indeed, Harry, she is nobody! and you need not stand on ceremony with her. I am sorry that her staying there just now should be so very inconvenient—as you hint that it is. Mamma has a great dislike to have people in the house, I know; but the leaving her was really not my fault, as you ought to see. I will be over as soon as I can, for my own sake, and relieve you of her:—you cannot form an idea what it is here, no soirÉes going on, no fÊtes, no anything. But if you really cannot allow her to remain until then, the shortest way will be to let her go to Nulle.

"Love to mamma, and believe me, your affectionate sister,

"Emily De Mellissie."

I read nearly to the end before suspecting that the letter was not meant for me. I had supposed it to be the answer to the one I despatched to Emily in the previous week. Some one else—as it would appear—had despatched one also, remonstrating at the inconvenience my presence caused at Chandos.

With a face that was burning in its every lineament—with hands that trembled as they closed—with a heart that felt half sick with shame—I started up. That very moment I would write word to Madame de Mellissie that I was quitting Chandos; and to Miss Barlieu, to say I was coming. In the midst of which paroxysm there entered Mr. Chandos, between Hickens and a stick.

He sat down in an arm-chair, wishing me good morning. When the man had gone I advanced to him with the open letter.

"This letter must be intended for you, I think, Mr. Chandos, although it was addressed to me. It is from Madame Alfred de Mellissie."

"Just so," he said, taking it, and handing me the one he himself held. This I presume is for you, as it begins "My dear Anne Hereford. Emily has betrayed her characteristic heedlessness, in sending my letter to you, and yours to me."

He ran his eyes over the note, and then called to me. I stood looking from the window.

"Have you read this?"

"Every word. Until I came to my own name I never suspected that it was not written for me. I am very sorry, Mr. Chandos; but I hope you will not blame me; indeed it was done inadvertently."

"So am I sorry," he answered, in a joking sort of tone, as if he would pass the matter over lightly. "Emily's letters ought to be preserved in the British Museum."

Before he could say more, Hill came in, and began talking with him in an undertone, looking crossly at me. Of course it drove me away. I went to the portico, and read my letter.

"My Dear Anne Hereford,

"You need not trouble yourself at all about being what you call 'an encumbrance' at Chandos, but just make yourself contented until I can come over. Mamma and my brother ought to be glad to have you there, for they are mured up alone from year's end to year's end. Keep out of their way as much as possible, so as not to annoy them.

"Yours sincerely,

"Emily De Mellissie.

"P.S.—Of course you might go to Miss Barlieu's, if Lady Chandos deems it expedient that you should."

A fine specimen of contradiction the note presented. I folded it and went upstairs, one determination strong upon me—to depart for Nulle.

Mrs. Penn was standing at the gallery-window between my room and the library. She was dressed handsomely, this new companion: a grey silk robe, a gold chain, a pretty blonde-lace cap mingling with her nearly scarlet hair, valuable rings on her fingers. Just as I took likes and dislikes when a child, so I took them still. And I did not like Mrs. Penn.

"I cannot divest myself of the notion that I have met you before, Mrs. Penn," I said. "But I am unable to recollect where."

"I can tell you," she answered. "You were at school at Nulle, and attended the English Protestant Church. It was there you and I used to see each other."

"There?" I repeated, incredulously, thinking she must be wrong.

"Yes, there," said Mrs. Penn. "I was staying in the town for some weeks two or three years ago; I remembered your face again here directly, though you have grown much. You were wont to study my face nearly as much as you studied your prayer-book. I used to wonder what you found in me to admire."

Throw my recollection back as I would, I could not connect the face before me with my associations of Nulle. It certainly might have been there that we met—and indeed why should she say so, were it not?—but it did not seem to be. As to the looking off the prayer-book part, I was sure that there could not have been much of that, the English governess who succeeded Miss Johnstone always watched us so sharply.

"Did you know the Miss Barlieus, Mrs. Penn?"

"Only by sight; I had no acquaintance with them. Quite old maids they are."

"They are kind, good women," I broke out, indignantly, and Mrs. Penn laughed.

"Somewhat careless withal, are they not? I think that was exemplified in the matter relating to Miss Chandos."

I could not answer. The whole blame had lain with Emily, but I did not choose to say that to Mrs. Penn. She was turning her gold chain round and round her finger, her very light blue eyes seemingly fixed on the opposite pine-trees, and then she spoke again her voice had dropped to a low tone.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Hereford?"

"Ghosts?" I echoed, astonished at the question.

"Ghosts," she repeated. "Do you believe that the dead come again?"

"When I see any ghosts I will tell you whether I believe in them or not," I said, jokingly. "Up to the present time it has not been my good fortune to fall in with any."

"It is said," she proceeded, looking round with caution, "that a ghost haunts Chandos. Have you not seen any strange sights?"

"No, indeed. It would very much astonish me to see such—if by 'strange sights' you mean ghosts."

"I saw one once," she said.

"Mrs. Penn!"

"A lady died in a house where I was staying; died almost suddenly. If ever I saw anything in my life, I saw her after she was in her grave. You look at me with incredulity."

"I cannot fancy that a real genuine ghost was ever seen. I am aware that strange tales are told—and believed: but I think they are but tales of the imagination."

"In speaking of strange tales do you allude to Chandos?"

"Certainly not. I spoke of the world in general."

"You take me up sharply. Nevertheless, strange tales are whispered of Chandos. On a moonlight night, as report runs, the spirit of Sir Thomas may be seen in the walks."

"Does it swim over from India to take its promenade?" I mockingly asked.

"You are thinking of the present baronet: he is not dead. I spoke of the late one. Look out some of these light nights, will you, and tell me whether you see anything. I cannot; for the available windows of the east wing do not face this way. They say he takes exercise there," pointing to the pine-walk.

"Did you say Sir Thomas's ghost, Mrs. Penn?" I asked, laughing.

"The world says so. I hear that some of the maids here, seeing the sight, have arrived at the notion that it is only Mr. Harry Chandos given to come out of his room at night and take moonlight promenades."

There was a ball in the window-seat, and I tossed it with indifference. She had got hold of the wrong story, and it was not my place to set her right. Hill came up, saying Mr. Chandos wished to speak to me; but I did not hurry down.

I had made my mind up to borrow sufficient money of him to take me to Nulle, and was trying to call up courage to ask it. His leg was upon a rest when I went in, and he leaned back in his chair reading a newspaper.

"I want to speak to you, Miss Hereford."

"And I—wanted—to speak to you, sir, if you please," I said, resolutely, in spite of my natural hesitation.

"Very well. Place aux dames. You shall have the first word."

It appeared, however, that Lizzy Dene was to have that. She came in at the moment, asked leave to speak, and began a recital of a second visit she had paid the gipsies the previous night, in which she had accused them of having attacked Mr. Chandos. The recital was a long one, and delivered curiously, very fast and in one tone, just as if she were repeating from a book, and imparting the idea that it had been learnt by heart. She wound up with saying the gipsies quitted the common in the night; and therefore no doubt could remain that one of the women had been the assailant. Mr. Chandos regarded her keenly.

"Lizzy Dene, what is your motive for pursuing these gipsies in the way you do? No one accuses them but you."

"Motive, sir?" returned the woman.

"Ay; motive," he pointedly said. "I shall begin to suspect that you know more about the matter than you would like made public. I think it is you to whom we must look for an explanation, not the gipsies."

Did you ever see a pale face turn to a glowing, fiery red?—the scarlet of confusion, if not of guilt? So turned Lizzy Dene's, to my utter amazement, and I think to that of her master. Could she have had anything to do with the attack upon him? She stammered forth a few deprecatory words, that, in suspecting the gipsies, she had only been actuated by the wish to serve Mr. Chandos, and backed out of the parlour.

Backed out to find herself confronted by a tall swarthy man, who had made his way into the hall without the ceremony of knocking for admittance. One of the gipsies unquestionably. Lizzie Dene gave a half shriek and flew away, and the man came inside the room, fixing his piercing eyes upon those of Mr. Chandos.

"It has been told to me this morning that you and your people accuse us of having assaulted you," he began, without prelude. "Master, I have walked back ten miles to set it right."

"I have not accused you," said Mr. Chandos. "The assault upon me—if it can be called such—proceeded from a woman; but I have no more cause to suspect that it was one of your women, than I have to suspect any other woman in the wide world."

"'Twas none of ours, master. We was 'camped upon your common, and you let us stop there unmolested; some lords of the soil drive us off ere we can pitch our tent, hunt us away as they'd hunt a hare. You didn't; you spoke kind to us, more than once in passing; you spoke kind to our little children; and we'd have protected you with our own lives, any of us, had need been. Do you believe me, master?"

The man's voice was earnest, and he raised his honest eyes, fierce though they were, to Mr. Chandos, waiting for the question to be answered.

"I do believe you."

"That's well, then, and what I came back hoping to hear. But now, master, I'll tell ye what I saw myself that same night. I was coming up toward this way, and you overtook me, riding fast. May be you noticed me, for I touched my hat."

"I remember it," said Mr. Chandos.

"You rode in at the gates at a hand gallop; I could hear the horse's hoofs in the silence of the evening. I met one of our fellows, and stopped to speak to him, which hindered me three—or four minutes; and—you know them trees to the left of the gate, master, with posts afore 'em?"

"Well?" said Mr. Chandos.

"There stood a woman there when I got up. She was taking off a grey cloak, and she folded it small and put it on her arm and walked away. Folks put on clothes at night, instead of taking 'em off, was in my thoughts, and I looked after her."

"Did you know her?"

"I never saw her afore. She was one in your condition of life, master, for her clothes were brave, and the rings glittered on her fingers. Next morning when we heard what had happened, we said she was the one. I have not seen her since. She seemed to be making for the railroad."

"Why did you not come and tell me this at the time?"

"Nay, master, was it any business of mine? How did I know I should be welcome? or that our people was suspected? That's all, sir."

"Will you take some refreshment?" said Mr. Chandos. "You are welcome to it."

"Master, I don't need any."

The man, with a rude salute to me, turned and departed, and we saw him treading the gravel walk with a fearless step. Mr. Chandos turned to me with a smile.

"What do you think of all this?"

"I am sure that the gipsies are innocent."

"I have been tolerably sure of that from the first, for I knew that their interest did not lie in making an enemy of me; rather the contrary; what puzzles me, is Lizzy Dene's manner. But let us return to the matter we were interrupted in, Miss Hereford. Go on with what you were about to say."

Very shrinkingly I began, standing close to him, giving him a sketch of the circumstances (Mrs. Paler's tardy payment) that caused me to be without money; and asking him to lend me a trifle: just enough to take me back to Nulle. About a guinea, I thought, or a guinea and a half: I had a few shillings left still. Mr. Chandos seemed highly amused, smiling in the most provoking way.

"Does Mrs. Paler really owe you thirty guineas?"

"Yes, sir. It is half a year's salary."

"Then I think she ought to pay you."

"Will you lend me the trifle, sir?"

"No. Not for the purpose you name. I will lend you as much as you like to put in your pocket; but not to take you to Nulle."

"I must go, sir. At least I must go somewhere. And I only know the Miss Barlieus in all the world."

"You wish to go because, in consequence of Emily's letter, you are deeming yourself an encumbrance at Chandos?"

I made no answer in words: the colour that flushed into my cheeks was all-sufficient.

"Let me speak to you confidentially," he said, taking my hand in his; "for a few minutes we will understand each other as friends. I am grieved that Emily's carelessness should have been the cause of annoyance to you; my mother will be sadly vexed when I tell her; but you must now listen to the explanation. There are certain family reasons which render it inexpedient for a stranger to be located at Chandos; even Emily herself would not at all times be welcome. Emily left you here. As the days went on, and we heard nothing from her, my mother desired me to write and inquire when she would be over, and to reprove her thoughtlessness in leaving you at Chandos, when she knew why it was more expedient that we should be alone. I simply wrote what my mother desired me; no more; and this letter of Emily's to-day is the answer to it. Now you have the whole gist of the affair. But I must ask you fully to understand that it is not to you personally my mother has an objection; on the contrary, she likes you; the objection applies to any one, save its regular inmates, who may be at Chandos. Did a royal princess offer a visit here, she would be equally unwelcome. Do you understand this?"

"Quite so. But, understanding it, I can only see the more necessity for my leaving."

"And where would you go?"

"To Nulle. To the Miss Barlieus."

"No; that would not do," he said. "Emily has left you here under our charge, and we cannot part with you, except to her. You said you must be guided by me in your reading; you must be guided by me also in this."

"I should only be too willing under happier circumstances. But you cannot imagine how uncomfortable is the feeling of knowing that I am intruding here in opposition to the wish of Lady Chandos."

"Lady Chandos does not blame you for it; be assured of that. And I can tell you my mother has other things to think of just now than of you—or Emily either. Will you try and make yourself contented?"

"You must please not say any more, Mr. Chandos. If I had nowhere else to go to, it would be a different thing; but I have Miss Barlieu's house."

"And suppose you had not that? Would you make yourself contented and stay?"

"Yes," I said, rashly.

"Then be happy from this moment. Miss Barlieu's house is a barred one to you at present."

Something like a leap of joy seemed to take my heart. His tone of truth was not to be mistaken.

"Lady Chandos had a note from Miss Annette on Saturday," he said, his beautiful truthful eyes fixed on my face with the same steady earnestness that they had been all along. "Amidst other news it contained the unpleasant tidings that fever had broken out at Nulle; one of their young ladies had been seized with it, and was lying very ill; and another was sickening."

"Oh, Mr. Chandos!"

"So you see we should not allow you to go there just now. Neither would the Miss Barlieus receive you. As my mother observed, that news settled the question."

I remained silent: in my shock and perplexity.

"Fever seems to be busy this autumn," he remarked, carelessly. "It is in this neighbourhood; it is in Paris; it is in Nulle: and probably in a great many more places."

"But, Mr. Chandos! what am I to do?"

"There is only one thing that you can do—or that Lady Chandos would allow you to do: and that is, stay here. Not another word, Miss Hereford. You can't help yourself, you know," he added, laughing; "and we are happy to have you."

"But the objection that Lady Chandos feels to having any one?"

"Ah well—you will not be a dangerous visitor. If the worst came to the worst, we shall have to enlist you on our side, and make you take a vow of fidelity to Chandos and its interests."

He was speaking in a laughing joking way, so that one could not tell whether his words were jest or earnest. Still they were curious ones.

"That is the situation, young lady. You can't help yourself, you see, if you would. How much money will you have?"

"Oh, sir, none. I do not require it, if I am not to go. I wish—as I am to stay here—I could make myself useful to some one."

"So you can; you can be useful to me. I will constitute you my head-nurse and walking companion. I shall use your shoulder at will until my foot has its free use again. Take care I don't tire you out."

He had kept my hand in his all that while, and now those deep blue speaking eyes of his, gazing still into mine, danced with merriment or pleasure. A thrill of rapture ran through me, and I never asked myself wherefore. Could it be that I was learning to love Mr. Chandos?

I sat in the oak parlour through the live-long day; I had nowhere else to sit but in my bedroom. Dangerous companionship!—that of an attractive man like Mr. Chandos.

Calling Hickens to his aid in the afternoon, he went slowly up to the apartments of Lady Chandos, and I saw no more of him until dinner time. Meanwhile I wrote a long letter to Miss Annette, expressing my great sympathy with the illness amidst the schoolgirls, and begging her to write and tell me which of them were ill, and also to let me know the very instant that the house should be safe again, for that I wanted to come to it.

In the evening Mr. Chandos, his lamp at his elbow, read aloud from a volume of Tennyson. I worked. Never had poetry sounded so sweet before; never will it sound sweeter; and when I went upstairs to bed, the melodious measure, and that still more melodious voice, yet rang in my ears.

To bed, but not to rest. What was the matter with me? I know not, but I could not sleep. Tossing and turning from side to side, now a line of the poems would recur to me: now would rise up the face of Mr. Chandos; now the remembrance of Lady Chandos's vexation at my being there. As the clock struck one, I rose from my uneasy bed, determined to try what walking about the chamber would do. Pulling the blind aside, quietly opening the shutters, I paused to look out on the lovely night, its clear atmosphere and its shining stars nearly as bright as day.

Why!—was I awake? or was I dreaming? There, under the shade of the thick trees, keeping close to them, as if not wishing to be seen, but all too plain to me, nevertheless, paced Mr. Chandos, wrapped in a large over-coat. What had become of his lame foot? That he walked slowly, as one does who is weak, there was no denying, but still he did not walk lame. Did, or would, a state of somnambulancy cause a disabled limb to recover temporary service and strength? Every sense I possessed, every reason, answered no. As I gazed at the sight with bewildered brain and beating heart, Mrs. Penn's words flashed over me—that it was the ghost of the dead Sir Thomas which was said to haunt the groves of Chandos.

Could it be? Was I looking at a real ghost? We all know how susceptible the brain is to superstition in the lonely midnight hours, and I succumbed in that moment to an awful terror. Don't laugh at me. With a smothered cry, I flew to the bed, leaped in, and covered my face with the bedclothes.

One idea was uppermost amid the many that crowded on me. If that was indeed the spirit of Sir Thomas, he must have died a younger man than I supposed, and have borne a great likeness to his son, Harry Chandos.

The morning's bright sun dispelled all ghostly illusions. I went out of doors as soon as I got down, just for a run along the broad walk and back again. At the corner where the angle hid the house, I came upon Mrs. Penn and the postman, only a few yards off. She had stopped to look at the addresses of the letters he was bringing. The sight sent me back again; but not before she turned and saw me. Not only did the action appear to me dishonourable—one I could not have countenanced—but some instinct seemed to say that Mrs. Penn was unjustifiably prying into the affairs of the Chandos family.

As Hickens took the letters from the man in the hall, Mrs. Penn came into the oak parlour. I was pouring out my coffee then.

"I am quite in despair," she exclaimed, flinging herself into a chair, with short ceremony. "These three days have I been expecting news of an invalid friend; and it does not come. I hope and trust she is not dead!"

"Perhaps she is unable to write?"

"She is. I said news of her; not from her. When I saw the postman come in at the gates just now, hope rose up within me, and I ran to meet him. But hope was false. The man brought me no letter, nothing but disappointment."

I am not sure but I must have had a wicked heart about that time. Instead of feeling sympathy with Mrs. Penn and her sick friend, a sort of doubt came over me, that she was only saying this to excuse her having stopped the postman. She untied the strings of her black lace bonnet, and rose, saying she supposed breakfast would be ready by the time she got upstairs.

"Mrs. Penn," I interposed, taking a sudden resolution to speak, "was that a joke of yours yesterday, about Sir Thomas Chandos?"

"About his ghost, do you mean? It was certainly not my joke. Why?"

"Nothing. I have been thinking about it."

"I don't tell you the ghost comes; but I should watch if I had the opportunity. The shutters in the front of the east wing are unfortunately fastened down with iron staples. I conclude—I conclude," repeated Mrs. Penn, slowly and thoughtfully—"as a precaution against the looking out of Mrs. Chandos."

"I daresay it is the greatest nonsense in the world. A ghost! People have grown wise now."

"I daresay it may be nonsense," she rejoined. "But for one thing I should heartily say it is nothing else."

"And that one thing, Mrs. Penn?"

"I will not disclose it to you, Anne Hereford. The report is common enough in the neighbourhood. Inquire of any of the petty shopkeepers in the hamlet, and you will find it to be so. They will tell you that rumours have been afloat for a long while that Sir Thomas may be seen at night in the pine walk."

She quitted the room as she spoke, leaving on my mind a stronger impression than ever that I had met her somewhere in my lifetime, had talked with her and she with me. There was in her manner an unconscious familiarity rarely indulged in save from old acquaintanceship. It was strange that she and Mr. Chandos should both strike on chords of my memory. Chords that would not be traced.

They were fortunate in this new companion. Gathering a word from one and another, I heard she was thoroughly efficient. And they made much of her, treating her essentially as a lady. She went out in the carriage with Mrs. Chandos; she talked to Mr. Chandos as an equal; she patronized me. But a whisper floated through the house that the only one who did not take kindly to her was Mrs. Chandos.