Margaret hesitated a moment. The evening was very warm, and once in the house, her cousin would be sure to shut all the windows and draw the curtains. Still, she must not be selfish-- "If I join you in a few minutes, Cousin Sophronia?" she said. "The children--I suppose it is time for them to come in. I will just go down to the summer-house and see--" The sentence remained unfinished; for at that moment, almost close beside them, arose the strange moaning sound once more. This time Miss Sophronia shrieked aloud. "Come!" she cried, dragging Margaret towards the house. "Come in this moment! It is the Voice! The Voice of Fernley. I will not stay here; I will not go in alone. Come with me, Margaret!" She was trembling from head to foot, and even Margaret, who was not timid about such matters, felt slightly disturbed. Was this some trick of the children? She must go and hunt them up, naughty little things. Ah! What was that, moving in the dusk? It was almost entirely dark now, but something was certainly coming up the gravel walk, something that glimmered white against the black box-hedges. Miss Sophronia uttered another piercing shriek, and would have fled, but Margaret detained her. "Who is that?" said the girl. "Basil, is that you? Where are the other children?" The white figure advanced; it was tall and slender, and seemed to have no head. Miss Sophronia moaned, and cowered down at Margaret's side. "I beg pardon!" said a deep, cheerful voice. "I hope nothing is wrong. It is only I, Miss Montfort,--Gerald Merryweather." Only a tall youth in white flannels; yet, at that moment, no one, save Uncle John himself, could have been more welcome, Margaret thought. "Oh, Mr. Merryweather," she said, "I am so glad to see you! No, nothing is wrong, I hope; that is--won't you come up on the verandah? My cousin--Cousin Sophronia, let me present Mr. Merryweather." Mr. Merryweather advanced, bowing politely to the darkness; when, to his amazement, the person to whom he was to pay his respects sprang forward, and clutched him violently. "You--you--you abominable young man!" cried Miss Sophronia, shrilly. "You made that noise; you know you made it, to annoy me! Don't tell me you did not! Get away from here this instant, you--you--impostor!" Margaret was struck dumb for an instant, and before she could speak, Gerald Merryweather was replying, quietly, as if he had been throttled every day of his life: "If choking is your object, madam, you can do it better by pulling the other way, I would suggest. By pulling in this direction, you see, you only injure the textile fabric, and leave the _corpus delicti_ comparatively unharmed."