Yes--there he stood--on the hearthrug as she had last seen him in that room. But he did not seem to hear her come in, for he made no movement towards her; he did not even turn his head in her direction. More and more startled and perturbed, Anne hastily went up to him. "Kenneth," she cried, "what is it? What is the matter?" She had held out her hand as she hurried towards him, but he did not seem to see it. He stood there still, without moving--his face slightly turned away, till she was close beside him. "Kenneth," she repeated, this time with a thrill of something very like anguish in her tone, "what is the matter? Are you angry with me? _Kenneth_--speak." Then at last he slowly turned his head and looked at her with a strange, half-wistful anxiety in his eyes--he gazed at her as if his very soul were in that gaze, and lifting his right hand, gently laid it on her shoulder as he had done the evening he had bidden her farewell. She did not shrink from his touch, but strange to say, she did not feel it, and some indefinable instinct made her turn her eyes away from his and glance at her shoulder. But even as she did so she saw that his hand was no longer there, and with a thrill of fear she exclaimed again, "_Speak_, Kenneth, _speak_ to me!" The words fell on empty air. There was no Kenneth beside her. She was standing on the hearthrug alone. Then, for the first time, there came over her that awful chill of terror so often described, yet so indescribable to all but the few who have felt it for themselves. With a terrible though half-stifled cry, Anne turned towards the door. It opened before she reached it, and she half fell into old Ambrose's arms. Fortunately for her--for her reason, perhaps--his vague misgiving had made him follow her, though of what he was afraid he could scarcely have told. "Oh, ma'am--oh, my poor lady!" he exclaimed, as he half led, half carried her back to her own room, "what is it? Has he gone? But how could he have gone? I was close by--I never saw him pass." "He is not there--_he has not been there_," said poor Anne, trembling and clinging to her old servant. "Oh, Ambrose, what you and I have seen was no living Kenneth Graham--no living man at all. Ambrose--he came thus to say good-bye to me. He is dead," and the tears burst forth as she spoke, and Anne sobbed convulsively. Ambrose looked at her in distress and consternation past words. Then at last he found courage to speak. "My poor lady," he repeated. "It must be so. I misdoubted me and I did not know why. He did not ring, but I was passing by the door and something--a sort of feeling that there was some one waiting outside--made me open it. To my astonishment it was he," and Ambrose himself could not repress a sort of tremor. "He did not speak, but seemed to pass me and be up the stairs and in the library in an instant. And then, not knowing what to do, I went to your room, ma'am. Forgive me if I did wrong."