But Mabel’s diversion was very ill-chosen. At the mention of the name “Dashleigh,” the doctor’s countenance, which had been wearing an expression far more complacent than that habitual to his leonine features, changed to one dark and louring, the index of the gloomy passions that reigned within. Mabel saw not the change, for her eyes were fixed upon the distant prospect, but it was witnessed by Augustine and Ida, who exchanged glances with each other,—the gentle girl’s significant of regret, the uncle’s of indignation. “Is not the black drop wrung out from that proud heart yet?” was the mental comment of Augustine. “Has not this house the repute of being haunted?” asked Ida, in order to turn the doctor’s thoughts into a different channel. “Old women and young fools say that it is so still,” replied Timon Bardon gruffly. “O! Papa,” lisped Cecilia, who had no inclination to acknowledge herself as coming under either of these denominations, “you know what strange noises are heard every night!” “Creaking of doors, cracking of old timber, the wind whistling away in the chimneys!” “Well, I confess,” said Cecilia, with a little affected laugh, “that delightful as the tower is on a summer’s day like this, I shall not care to wander much through its long echoing corridors on a dark winter’s night. Mr. Aumerle,” she continued, addressing Augustine, who was leaning on the stone parapet, and gazing down with an abstracted air, “you who know everything, do you know of no charm to lay the bad spirits that are said to haunt ancient houses?” “I am afraid,” replied Augustine gravely, “that such spirits are wont to haunt new houses as well as old ones, and that it needs more knowledge than philosophy can teach to give us the power to lay them.” Cecilia looked puzzled at the enigmatical reply, but before she had time to ask for a solution, Mabel interrupted the conversation by suddenly exclaiming, “Surely that is the Dashleigh’s carriage that has just turned the corner of the hill!” “We have stayed long enough on this tower,” said the doctor, averting his eyes from the direction in which those of Mabel were turned; “let us descend to the court.” His suggestion, which sounded like a command, was followed at once by his guests; poor Cecilia heaved a sigh at the thought that once she might have indulged a hope that the gay carriage with its dashing bays might be bound for Nettleby Tower. “After all that has happened,” she reflected sadly, “that is impossible now!” The descent of the long winding stairs, whose steep, rude, age-worn steps were only dimly lighted by narrow slits cut here and there in the massive stone wall, required both caution and time. Ere Bardon, who was the last of the party, had emerged from the low-browed door which opened into the courtyard, the bridge across the moat had been crossed, and the Earl and Countess of Dashleigh were already exchanging kindly greetings with the foremost of the Aumerles.