"A danger that you may not inquire about. You have escaped it; let that suffice. But you must never encounter the risk again; do you hear, Anne?" "Only tell me how I am to avoid it." "By keeping away from these gloomy walks at nightfall. I feel as if I could never be thankful enough for having come up when I did." He had turned into the pine-walk again, my arm within his now, and was striding up it. At the top he released me quite. "Shall you be afraid to run across the lawn alone?" "Oh, no; there's the hall-lamp for company." "To be sure. One moment yet. I want a promise from you." He held me before him, looking straight into my eyes, and took my hand between both of his, not in affection, I saw that well enough, but in painful anxiety. "A promise not to mention what has occurred to any one." "Trust me, I will not. _Trust_ me, Mr. Chandos." "Yes, I do trust you. Thank you, my dear little friend." But all the while his face had remained cold and white. Rarely had such terror fallen upon man: its signs were there. He turned back into the walk again, and I ran swiftly across in the stream of light thrown on the grass by the hall-lamp, and got indoors; one bewildering query haunting me—did ghosts emit sounds as of footsteps when they walked? My dinner was getting cold on the table. Hickens stared at me as I went in, wondering, doubtless, where I had been. Mr. Chandos's place remained unoccupied; and the things were taken away. I did marvel at his remaining out of doors so long. By-and-by, Hill came in to get something from the sideboard; she ran in and out of the rooms at will, without any sort of ceremony. To speak to her was a sort of relief. "Hill, don't you think it is very imprudent of Mr. Chandos to be out in the night-air so long, considering that he was ill recently?" "I should if he was in it," responded Hill, in the short tone she always gave me. "Mr. Chandos is in the west wing with my lady." It had occurred to my mind many times—and I think I was right—that Hill resented the fact of my unfortunate detention at Chandos. On the following day a new feature was to be added to the mysterious illness of Lady Chandos—a doctor at length came to see her. He had travelled from a distance, as was understood; but whether by train or other conveyance did not appear. They called him Dr. Laken. He was a short, thin man, getting in years, with dark eyes, and a benevolent, and truthful countenance. His appearance was unexpected—but it seemed more welcome than gold. Mr. Chandos came to him in the oak-parlour, shaking hands warmly. "Doctor! how glad I am to see you! So you have at last returned!" "Ay, safe and sound; and considerably refreshed by my two months' change. Where do you think I have been, Mr. Harry? All the way to the other end of Scotland." "And you were such a stay-at-home!"