The sun had drawn away his bright warm cloak foot by foot, the grey pall of a short Indian twilight was rapidly spreading over the valley. Shadows advanced stealthily and momentarily, the woods were inscrutable, and the first cry of the jackal rose through the sharp hill air. Jervis had risen already to depart, when his attention was arrested by an unexpected sound--no jackal this, it was a voice, a human voice--coming from the direction of the church or churchyard. He almost held his breath to listen, and this is what he heard, in what had been once a full rich contralto. Every syllable was distinctly audible, and there was a slight almost imperceptible pause between each word-- “Oh, where shall rest be found-- Rest for the weary soul? ’Twere vain the ocean’s depths to sound, Or pierce to either pole.” There was a silence of a full minute, during which the young man’s heart thumped loudly against his ribs. Was he listening to the voice of one risen from the grave? Then the weird singing recommenced, with a wail of passionate despair in the notes-- “The world can never give The bliss for which we sigh; ’Tis not the whole of life to live, Nor all of death to die.” He waited for a considerable time in a fever of thrilling expectancy--but there was no more. Having made certain of this, his next move was to acquaint himself with the personality of the performer. He ran over to the ruins of the church, climbed in across a pile of broken masonry--the small square enclosure was easily measured at one glance--it was empty. Then he walked slowly round, and examined the walls by the dying light. No, his quest was vain, there was not a soul--undoubtedly it had been a soul--to be seen. In the gathering darkness, the now silent valley had grown very sombre, the trees made awful shadows, and the forest seemed to stretch away up the mountains, until it was lost in the dusky sky. * * * * * “In what direction did you ride to-day, Mark?” inquired his father as they sat over their dessert. “I cannot tell you precisely, sir; but I came home by the cantonment.” “A lovely spot; the authorities could not have chosen better, if they had searched five hundred miles--good air, good water, good aspect; and yet the last regiment died there like flies. The natives say it is an accursed place, and not a man of them will go near it after sundown.” “I suppose you don’t believe in that sort of thing, sir; you are not superstitious?”