Those poor Mervyns! A rush of pity for dear, good Mammy and her worthy husband made me turn away from the idea, wrung with pain. They had been so tender and good to me always. What a repayment—to grieve their kind hearts! Overcome, I made my way to the triangle-lawn, and sat down in a corner of the stone bench under the laurels to collect my thoughts. Then came the most startling event of my whole life. I had hardly been there a minute, when a figure glided in by the path through the shrubs by which I had come—the figure of a man. It stood motionless in the shadow. At first, with a throb of triumph, I thought it was you. I was springing up to rush to you when it made a step forward. I saw a white face in the moonlight: the face of a thin man with grey hair, all tossed about above his forehead—a face I seemed to know, but did not know. (This I declare to you that I saw, with these living eyes, and never, never will I believe that I was deceived. _Never!_) At first I shivered—yes, with fright. I was afraid of that man, whose face was familiar and strange at one and the same time. Then I suddenly remembered something you said to me when I was a child, and Rob the pony ran away and I stuck on. When you came up and found us all right you said, sharply, “Were you frightened?” Then, after I answered “No,” you said, “That’s right. If you were frightened at anything, I should disown you.” You shall never disown me for cowardice! So I conquered the nonsensical tremor, and went across towards the man. As I got near, I saw it was he—your Hamlet. He looked frightened, horrified—I think, shocked. He stared at me without speaking while I could have counted twelve; then he said, quite harshly: “Is this the first time you have been here at this hour?” Before I could think I naturally said “Yes,” and told him why I had come. “This is most extraordinary,” he said, staring strangely at me. He was not like himself: he seemed dazed. I felt less shy of him. “I came here for two reasons,” I said. “I was too unhappy to sleep, and I thought that if my father’s spirit is hovering about anywhere I might find it—him—here.” Just then the church clock rang out so loudly that I started, and laid my hand on his arm. He smiled, and took my hand. “Even the great philosopher, Miss Pym, is superstitious enough to believe in ghosts and to be frightened when the clock strikes twelve,” he said, in a familiar teasing way. “I was not frightened; I was only startled,” I said. “Come, we must go back to the house at once; I am answerable for you,” he said in an authoritative way.