It was a large, handsome box; a beautiful box; tortoiseshell inlaid with silver, its fittings of silver and sky-blue velvet; its scissors (save the steel part), its thimble, bodkin, and stiletto of gold. "I wonder they did not take _these_ as well as the lace." "They might be afraid to do that," said Mrs. Penn. "See!" she cried, lifting the tray, "that's where it lay. It was a very handsome piece of lace, and I am sorry to lose it." The sweeping of a silk dress along the corridor gave token of the approach of Mrs. Chandos. She passed into the east wing and Mrs. Penn hastened after her. Standing at the door of the west wing, as if he had attended Mrs. Chandos from it, was Mr. Chandos. He saw us both come out of the library. Where he had his dinner that day I don't know. Mine was over and the things were taken away before I saw him again. I had been upstairs for a book and met him in the hall. He followed me to the oak-parlour and threw himself into a chair, like one utterly weary. "You have not been walking much, have you, Mr. Chandos?" "Not much; my foot's too weak yet. I have been taking a turn or two in the pine-walk. And you? Have you been spirit-gazing again?" I did not answer, except by a shake of the head, and he sat for a long while in silence, breaking it at last abruptly. "Does Mrs. Penn get looking from the front windows, after that—that sight—that you professed to see the night before last?" "I think she would like to do so: but there's no opportunity. The rooms in the east wing do not look to the front, you know." "Ah, I see you and she get talking of this together." "The talking has been very little, and of her seeking, not mine. I would rather she never spoke to me at all of it: it embarrasses me." "Why does it embarrass you?" "I—I——" "Well?" he said, looking straight at me. "I don't like to say, Mr. Chandos." He left his chair and came to the window, where I stood playing with the jessamine. How soft the air was! how sweet the perfume of the flowers in the approaching night! "Now then. I am come to hear what you mean." The tones were persuasive: the face, as it drooped a little, wore a smile of inviting confidence. I bent my head and told him—that I thought what people had seen at midnight and taken for a ghost might be himself walking in his sleep; but that I could not say this to Mrs. Penn. He made no rejoinder whatever. He lifted his head and gazed straight out towards the entrance of the pine-walk. "Shall I tell Mrs. Penn that it is not a ghost at all, sir, and set her mind, so far, at rest? I need not give any particulars." "But suppose it is a ghost, Miss Hereford?" The tones were very sad and serious. My heart beat a little quicker. "Did you not assure me you saw it the other night—when I was safe in this very parlour?" "Yes; but I thought afterwards it might be what you said—one of the gardeners. Night-light is so deceptive."