"Come back for his tools," added Mr. Chandos. "Mrs. Penn, however, says it is something else that walks there—my late father's spirit. Do you think she _believes_ it?" "Yes. She spoke as if she did believe it: and dreaded it. Shall I tell her she need not?" "No," he sadly said. "I cannot unfortunately ask you to do that." What did the speech mean? Did it really bear the intimation that he could not in truth deny it? Something like a tremor, with that dark and weird pine-walk within sight, crept over me. Mr. Chandos leaned from the window, plucked a white rose, and put it into my hand. "There," he said, "that's better than talking of ghosts. And, Miss Hereford—keep your curtains above closed after dusk: I don't like to be watched when I go out there." He rang the bell for lights and tea. Ah, that rose, that rose! Does anybody, reading this, remember receiving one from a beloved hand? Had it been a flower of Paradise it could not have borne for me a greater charm. The skies were brighter, the coming night was sweeter, the whole atmosphere seemed impregnated with a bliss, not of this world. My heart was wild with happiness; the rose was worth more than Golconda's costliest diamonds. I have it still. I shall keep it for ever. "And now for a cup of tea, if you'll give me one, Miss Hereford." I turned from the window, the rose held carelessly in my fingers, and put it down, as of no moment, beside the tray. Afterwards he stayed talking to me a little while, and then rose to leave for the evening. "I wish I could stay longer; it is very lonely for you," he said, as he shook hands. "But my mother feels lonely too; and so—I must divide myself as I best may." "Is not Lady Chandos better?" I asked, interrupting his light laugh. "Some days she is. Not much on the whole." "And you, sir?" I suppose I looked at him wistfully, for he put his hand for a moment on my head, and bent his kind face. "Don't be anxious for me. I am sorry you heard what Amos said. I am very much better than I was the day he was here. Good-night." It was all dreary again; sunshine had gone out; and I went up to bed at half-past nine. The first thing I did was to kiss the rose before putting it away: my cheeks burn at confessing it as they burnt then. Kissing the senseless rose! And in the very midst of the sweet folly my chamber-door was knocked at, and Mrs. Penn came in. "How early you have come up! Dull? Ay, I daresay you do find it dull. But I can't stay a moment. I want you to do me a favour, Anne Hereford. When Mrs. Chandos shall be abed and asleep to-night, let me come to your room." "What for?" I exclaimed, in great surprise. "I want to watch from your windows. I want to see whether it is a ghost that is said to haunt the walks at nights: or—whether it is anything else. I knew the late Sir Thomas, and should recognise——"