‘I am thankful to say I have never heard of any ghosts,’ answered Madoline. ‘Every house that has been lived in fifty years must have some sad memories; but our dead do not come back to us, except in our dreams.’ ‘Mr. Goring, I insist upon a ghost-story,’ said Daphne. ‘On this particular day—at this particular hour—in this delicious half-light, a story of some kind must be told.’ ‘I delight in ghost-stories—good grim old German legends,’ answered Gerald languidly, looking deliciously comfortable in the depths of an immense armchair, so low that it needed the dexterity of a gymnast to enable man or woman to get in or out of it gracefully—a downy-cushioned nest when one was there. ‘I adore phantoms, and fiends, and the whole shopful; but I never could remember a story in my life.’ ‘You must tell one to-night,’ cried Daphne eagerly. ‘It need not be ghostly. A nice murder would do—a grisly murder. My blood begins to turn cold in advance.’ ‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ said Gerald; ‘but although I have made a careful study of all the interesting murders of my age I could never distinctly remember details. I should get hideously mixed if I tried to relate the circumstances of a famous crime. I should confound Rush with Palmer, the Mannings with the Greenacres; put the pistol into the hand that used the knife; give the dagger to the man who pinned his faith on the bowl. Not to be done, Daphne. I am no _raconteur_. You or Lina had better amuse me. One of you can tell me a story—something classical—John Gilpin, or the Old Woman with her Pig.’ ‘John Gilpin! a horridly cheerful singsong ballad—and in such a fantastic dreamy light as this! I wonder you have not more sense of the fitness of things. Besides, it is your duty to amuse us. A story of some kind we must have, mustn’t we, Lina dearest?’ ‘It would be very pleasant in this half-light,’ answered Lina softly, quite happy, sitting silently between those two whom she loved so dearly, pleased especially at Daphne’s brightness and good-humour, and apparently friendly feeling for Gerald. ‘You hear,’ exclaimed Daphne. ‘Your liege lady commands you.’ ‘A story,’ mused Gerald in his laziest tone, with his head lying back on the cushions, and his eyes looking dreamily up at the ceiling, where the lights and shadows came and went so fantastically. ‘A story, ghostly or murderous, tragical, comical, amorous, sentimental—well, suppose now I were to tell you a classical story, as old as the hills, or as the laurel-bushes in your garden, the story of your namesake Daphne.’ ‘Namesake!’ echoed the girl, with her golden head resting against the arm of her sister’s chair, her eyes gravely contemplative of the fire. ‘Had I ever a namesake? Could there be another set of godfathers and godmothers in the world stupid enough, or hard-hearted enough, to give an unconscious innocent such a name as mine?’