I was bewitched by the playing, almost as the knight had been by the ethereal lady of the music-story. Suddenly the music ceased. I thought Mary had retired to rest. But again, on the night air, came the introduction to the little ballad I had already heard her sing in part. Her voice, with its plaintive sweetness, broke into melody. She lilted softly the first verse,--and I waited. She sang the second verse. Again I waited, wondering, then hoping and longing that she would continue. The third verse came at last and--I regretted its coming. A maid there was in the North Countree; A sad little, lone little maid was she. Her knight seemed fickle and all untrue As he rode to war at the drummer's dree. And, day by day, as her sorrow grew, Her spinning wheel groaned and the threads wove through; It groaned.--It groaned.--It groaned and the threads wove through. "What a stupid little song, after all!" I exclaimed. "Surely there must be another verse to it? Where does the happy ending come in?" But, though I listened eagerly, no further sounds broke the stillness of the night save the sobbing and moaning of the sea and the hooting of a friendly owl in the forest behind. CHAPTER XXV The Ghoul Next morning, I looked out upon a wet mist that hung over Golden Crescent like a spider's gigantic web all a-drip with dew. My visitors of the previous night had gone three hours ago. I had heard them getting up steam, but I was still too weak and stiff to think of getting out of bed so early to see them off. I turned, as usual, to watch the upward, curling smoke from Mary's kitchen fire. Strange to say, this morning there _was_ no smoke. "Taking a rest," I thought, "after her long watching and nursing over a good-for-nought like me! Ah, well!--I shall breakfast first then I shall pay my respects and ask forgiveness of the lady for 'the things I have done that I ought not to have done,' and all will be well." I hurried over that porridge, and bacon and eggs. I dressed with scrupulous care, even to the donning of a soft, white, linen collar with a flowing tie. "Surely," I reasoned, "she can never be cruel to me in this make-up." When I started out, all seemed quiet and still over there at Mary Grant's. With a feeling of disrupting foreboding, which dashed all my merriment aside, I quickened my footsteps. The windows were closed; the door was shut tight. I knocked, but no answer came. I tried the door:--it was locked. "Why! What can it be?" I asked myself. My roving eyes lit on a piece of white paper pinned to the far post of the veranda. It was in pencil, in Mary's handwriting. "George, "There is yet another battle for you to fight. I am going away. Please do not try to find out where, either by word or by deed. "Golden Crescent will always be in my thoughts. Some day, maybe, I will come back. "God bless you and keep you, and may you ever be my brave and very gallant gentleman. "Mary Grant."