Pauline had passed the wicket, which he had impulsively flung open, before she realized the violation of one of her age-long rules. "It's really rather jolly in here to-day," said Guy. "I think we're duffers not to come more often, you know." The Autumn wind was booming round the plantation and sweeping up the broad path down the hillside with a skelter of leaves that gave a wild gaiety to the usually tristful scene. "Why shouldn't we explore inside?" suggested Guy. "There's something so exhilarating about this great west wind. Almost one could fancy it might blow away that ghost of a house." Pauline hesitated; since earliest childhood the Abbey had oppressed her with ill omen, and she could not overcome her prejudice in a moment. "You're not really afraid when you're with me?" he persisted. Pauline surrendered, and they went across the etiolated lawn towards the entrance. The wind was roaring through every crevice, and the ivy was scratching restlessly at the panes or shivering where through the gaps it had crept in with furry tendrils. "It's rather fun to be walking up this staircase as if this were our own house," said Guy. Pauline had an impulse to go back, and she made a quick step to descend. "Where are you going?" "Guy, I think I feel afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Oh, not of anything. Just afraid." "Come, foolish one," he whispered, gently. And she, though it was against her will, followed him up the echoing empty stairs. They went into every room, and Guy declared how they with their love were restoring to each of them the life it had known in the past. Here was a pleasant fancy, and Pauline hoped it might be true. In the thought that their presence was in a way the bestowal of charity on these maltreated halls she lost much of her alarm and began to enjoy the solitude spent with Guy. Whether they looked out at the wilderness that once was a garden or at the rank lawn in front, the thunderous wind surging round the house brought them closer together in the consciousness of their own shelter and their own peace in this deserted habitation. "Now confess," said Guy, "haven't we been rather stupid to neglect such a refuge?" "But, Guy, we haven't needed a refuge very often," objected Pauline, who, for all that she was losing some of her dread of the Abbey, was by no means inclined to set up a precedent for going there too often. "Not yet," he admitted. "But with Winter coming on and the wet days that will either keep us indoors or else prevent us from doing anything but walk perpetually along splashy roads, we sha'n't be sorry to have a place like this to which we can retreat in comparative comfort." "Oh, Guy," Pauline asked, anxiously, "I suppose we ought not to come here?" "Why on earth not?" "Don't be angry. But the idea just flashed through my mind that perhaps Mother wouldn't like us to come here very often." He sighed deeply.