"Nothing," he answers, with an effort. "It is only a stagy way he has of speaking. Let us forget him." --- So Mark Gore drops out of our life for the present. Three days later Lady Blanche Going also takes her departure. As we assemble in the hall to bid her good-bye--I, from an oppressive sense of what is demanded by the laws of courtesy, the others through the dawdling idleness that belongs to a country house--she sweeps up to me, and, with an unusually bewitching smiles, says, sweetly:--- "Good-bye, dear Mrs. Carrington. Thank you so much for all your kindness to me. I really don't remember when I have enjoyed myself so well as here at dear old Strangemore with you." Here she stoops forward, as though she would press her lips to my cheek. Instantaneously dropping both her hand and my handkerchief, I bend to pick up the latter; when I raise myself again, she has wisely passed on, and so I escape the hypocritical salute. Marmaduke puts her, maids, traps, and all, into the carriage. The door is shut, the horses start; I am well rid of another troublesome guest. I draw a deep sigh of relief as two ideas present themselves before my mind. One is, that I am better out of it all than I deserve; the second, that never again, under any circumstances, shall she enter my doors. --- It is the night before Harriet's departure, and almost all our guests have vanished. Our two military friends have resumed their regimental duties a week ago; Sir George Ashurst has gone to London for a little while; Dora has decided on burying herself at Summerleas during his absence--I suppose to meditate soberly upon the coming event. It is nine o'clock. Dinner is a thing of the past. Even the gentlemen, having tired of each other, or the wine, or the politics, have strolled into the drawing-room, and are now indulging in such light converse as they deem suitable to our feeble understandings. Suddenly the door is flung wide, and Bebe comes hurriedly in--so hurriedly that we all refrain from speech, and raise our eyes to rivet them upon her. She is nervous--half laughing--yet evidently scared. "Oh, Marmaduke!" she says, with a little gasp, and going up to him and fastening her fingers on his arm, "I have seen a ghost!" "A _what?_" says 'Duke. "A ghost--a downright, veritable ghost. Now don't look so incredulous I am thoroughly in earnest. I was never in my life before so frightened. I tell you I saw it plainly, and quite close. Oh, how I ran!" She puts her other hand to her heart, and draws a long breath. Naturally we all stare at her, and feel interested directly. A _real_ spectre is not a thing of everyday occurrence. I feel something stronger than interest; I am terrified beyond measure, and rising from my seat, I look anxiously at 'Duke. "I never heard there was a ghost here before," I say, reproachfully. "Is the house haunted? Oh, 'Duke! you never told me of it--and I have gone about it at all hours, and sometimes even _without a light!_"