where they talked as gentlemen wouldn’t do if the wine hadn’t got uppermost. It was some time before the captain returned. It’s a good way down and back. When he came in at last, he looked as if he had got the fright I wished him, he had such a scared look. The candle in his lantern was out, and there was no water in the jug. “There’s your guinea, Centlivre,” says he, throwing it on the table. “You needn’t ask me any questions, for I won’t answer one of them.”—“Captain,” says I, as he turned to leave the room, and the other gentlemen rose to follow him, “I’ll just hang up the key again.”—” By all means,” says he. “Where is it, then?” says I. He started and made as if he searched his pockets all over for it. “I must have dropped it,” says he; “but it’s of no consequence; you can send William to look for it in the morning. It can’t be lost, you know.”—“Very well, captain,” said I. But I didn’t like being without the key, because of course he hadn’t locked the door, and that part of the house has a bad name, and no wonder. It wasn’t exactly pleasant to have the door left open. All this time I couldn’t get to see how Emily was. As often as I looked from my window, I saw her light in the old west turret out there, Samuel. You know the room where the bed is still. The rain and the wind will be blowing right through it to-night. That’s the bed you was born upon, Samuel.’—It’s all gone now, sir, turret and all, like a good deal more about the old place; but there’s a story about that turret afterwards, only I mustn’t try to tell you two things at once.—‘Now I had told the Indian woman that if anything happened, if she was worse, or wanted to see me, she must put the candle on the right side of the window, and I should always be looking out, and would come directly, whoever might wait. For I was expecting you some time soon, and nobody knew anything about when you might come. But there the blind continued drawn down as before. So I thought all was going on right. And what with the storm keeping Sir Giles and so many more that would have gone home that night, there was no end of work, and some contrivance necessary, I can tell you, to get them all bedded for the night, for we were nothing too well provided with blankets and linen in the house. There was always more room than money in it. So it was past twelve o’clock before I had a minute to myself, and that was only after they had all gone to bed—the bride and bridegroom in the crimson chamber, of course. Well, at last I crept quietly into Emily’s room. I ought to have told you that I had not let her know anything about the wedding being that day, and had enjoined the heathen woman not to say a word; for I thought she might as well die without hearing about it. But I believe the vile wretch did tell her. When I opened the room-door, there was no light there. I spoke, but no one answered. I had my own candle in my hand, but it had been blown out as I came up the stair. I turned and ran