I slunk beneath the shadows cast by the verandah, past the places where my servants lay asleep to that side of the house where are situated the bedrooms of my wife and Miss Anstruther, and was glad to see that the venetians of both windows were closed, so that I trusted no alarm might reach their ears. And now, though I was close upon it, the figure seemed to take no notice of my presence, but still walked cautiously up and down between the rows of graves, whilst it kept up a sort of moaning to itself. It looked so strange and unearthly as it thus wandered beneath the moonlight, that I felt myself shiver as I gazed at it, and yet my belief in the whole business turning out a trick was strong as ever. So, after a pause, just sufficient to permit the figure to get as far as possible away from the vicinity of my wife’s bedroom windows, I sprang after it; and just as it had turned again towards the house, we met face to face. What was my surprise, my consternation, in the ghost which had caused us such trouble and vexation to encounter—Margaret Anstruther! Yet there she was, no clothing on but her light night-dress; with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders, and her bare feet pressing the turf as though it pained them. ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed, as I staggered back at the sight of this earthly apparition, far more alarming to me than if I had seen twenty ghosts; ‘Margaret—Lionne—what are you doing here?’ At the sound of my voice she halted, and turned her head slightly to one side, as though to listen; and then by the moonlight I perceived to my horror that her eyes were lifeless although open, and that she was walking in her sleep. I had never encountered such a sight before, and for a moment I knew not what to do. ‘Was that Robert?’ she murmured, presently, in a low, husky voice utterly unlike her own, and as though she were addressing herself, or nobody. ‘Yes, it is I,’ I answered, trying to control my agitation and my tones. ‘Margaret, why are you here? why have you left your bed?’ ‘Oh, Robert, Robert!’ she exclaimed, with an expression of anguish which I shall never forget, ‘save me, save me!’ ‘From what am I to save you, Lionne?’ ‘From yourself—from yourself, and from me—from my weakness and my folly. Oh, don’t let me fall! don’t let me fall!’ Although she still spoke dreamily, the sightless orbs which she had turned upon me were contracted with pain, and I saw that her whole frame was trembling, I ventured to go close to her, and gently take her hand. ‘You shall not fall, dear Lionne,’ I whispered to her; ‘trust to me. I will lead you the right way.’ ‘_Dear Lionne!_’ she repeated to herself, ‘_dear Lionne!_ he says to me, _dear Lionne!_’