"Oh! they must have strayed," said Laura faintly. All her will was struggling with this swimming brain--it should not overpower her. The tinkling of a small burn could be heard beside the road. Helbeck jumped down. "Don't be afraid; the pony is really quite quiet--he'll stand." In a second or two he was back--and just in time. Laura knew well the touch of the little horn cup he put into her cold hand. Many and many a time, in the scrambles of their summer walks, had he revived her from it. She drank eagerly. When he mounted the carriage again, some strange instinct told her that he was not the same. She divined--she was sure of an agitation in him which at once calmed her own. She quickly assured him that she was much better, that the pain was fast subsiding. Then she begged him to hurry on. She even forced herself to smile and talk. "It was very ghostly, wasn't it? Daffady, our old cow-man, will never believe they were real horses. He has a story of a bogle in this road--a horse-bogle, too--that makes one creep." "Oh! I know that story," said Helbeck. "It used to be told of several roads about here. Old Wilson once said to me, 'When Aa wor yoong, ivery field an ivery lane wor fu o' bogles!' It is strange how the old tales have died out, while a brand new one, like our own ghost story, has grown up." Laura murmured a "Yes." Had he forgotten who was once the ghost? Silence fell again--a silence in which each heart could almost hear the other beat. Oh! how wicked--wicked--would she be if she had come meddling with his life again, of her own free will! Here at last was the bridge, and the Bannisdale gate. Laura shut her eyes, and reckoned up the minutes that remained. Then, as they sped up the park, she wrestled indignantly with herself. She was outraged by her own callousness towards this death in front of her. "Oh! let me think of her! Let me be good to her!" she cried, in dumb appeal to some power beyond herself. She recalled her father. She tried with all her young strength to forget the man beside her--and those piteous facts that lay between them. * * * * * In Augustina's room--darkness--except for one shaded light. The doors were all open, that the poor tormented lungs might breathe. Laura went in softly, the Squire following. A nurse rose. "She has rallied wonderfully," she said in a cheerful whisper, as she approached them, finger on lip. "Laura!" said a sighing voice. It came from a deep old-fashioned chair, in which sat Mrs. Fountain, propped by many pillows. Laura went up to her, and dropping on a stool beside her, the girl tenderly caressed the wasted hand that had itself no strength to move towards her.