She turned her big eyes upon me in such a pitiful vacuous way. Then she recognised me, and looked frightened. ‘Have I been dreaming? Have I been saying anything? Oh! I am so sorry,’ she said apologetically, as she caught up the child and held it to her breast. ‘You have only been talking a little in your sleep,’ I replied soothingly; ‘don’t be alarmed; you said nothing out of the common way, and there is no one here but myself.’ She did not answer, but as she held the child I saw how her arms trembled. ‘Your agitation is the worst thing possible for the baby, you know; and you must try and calm yourself for his sake,’ I continued. ‘I should be so sorry to hurt him,’ she murmured; ‘and I will try and not dream again, if it is possible.’ ‘Shall I fetch you anything?’ ‘Oh no, madam, thank you. The best thing I can do is to go to sleep again. There is nothing for me but sleep—and prayer,’ she added in a whisper. I felt deeply interested in this young woman. There was an air of patient mournfulness about her that betokened deep suffering; and as I returned to my room I resolved to do my best to be of use to her. She so completely occupied my thoughts, indeed, that I had forgotten all about the ghost, till Bessie asked me how I could possibly walk through the corridor with so composed a step. ‘My dear, I was thinking about baby and his nurse, and quite forgot to be frightened. Yes, they are all right now, and going to sleep again comfortably; and I think the ghost must have followed their example, for certainly there were no signs of its presence as I returned: so I think we had better try to make up for our broken rest by a few hours’ sleep.’ Bessie was quite ready to do so; but for my own part I lay awake until the loitering dawn broke through the shuttered windows. Mr Maclean’s absence was really, I found, not to be prolonged beyond the two nights; so I could write Dick word to fetch me home on the following day; but I resolved, before I went, to have some sort of explanatory conversation with Mrs Graham, with respect to her dream of the night before. I told nothing of it to Bessie; for I felt she would spoil everything perhaps by her awkwardness in handling the subject, or wound the poor girl’s feelings by too abrupt a reference to her grief. But I watched Mrs Graham leave the house at about eleven o’clock to take her little charge out for his morning walk, and as soon as Bessie descended to the kitchen quarters to give her orders for the day, I put on my bonnet and shawl and ran after the nurse. There was a cold wind blowing from the north, and I knew I should find her in the sheltered shrubbery, where she had been told to take the child. It extended for some distance, and when I came up with her we were quite out of sight and hearing of the house. ‘A fine cold morning!’ I remarked, by way of a beginning. ‘Very cold, madam.’ ‘With the wind in the north. A nasty day for the sea—I pity the ships in the channel.’