Frances looked at him. His voice was tremulous, and yet she had a curious conviction that it was not solely anxiety for little Ruth that made it so. She considered for a moment before replying. “She had a fall,” she said then. “Ah! Was it near the Rocking Stone?” Mr. Dermot sat slowly forward. “You will tell me,” he said. “I am sure you will tell me.” Again Frances hesitated. If the details of Ruth’s accident had purposely been kept from him, was she justified in enlightening him? “I only know what I have been told since,” she said. “They found her lying unconscious, and it was evident that she had had a fall.” “And that is all you know? You cannot tell me who found her or why she went?” Suppressed excitement sounded in the words. Mr. Dermot was gripping the arm of his chair, and the bones of his knuckles stood out sharply. “I am very anxious to know all,” he said. “They try to keep it from me, but it is wrong—it is wrong. She had a fall, you say? Was she—was she—alone when she fell?” “I believe so,” Frances said. “In fact, I am sure of it, for they say she was not found for some hours after.” “Ah!” The old man relaxed so suddenly that he almost fell back into his chair. “That is what I wanted to know. She was alone. They say so.” He broke off, panting a little; but in a moment or two recovered himself sufficiently to smile at her. “Now that,” he said, “gives colour, does it not, to the local rumour that the powers of evil are in some mysterious way permitted to haunt the Stones. This is a very interesting point, Miss Thorold. Can her fall have been due to something of this nature? Are you a believer in the occult?” “Not to that extent,” said Frances, suppressing a chill shiver. “I think it was perfectly easy for the poor mite to fall, considering her blindness.” “Ah, yes. They should not have let her wander so far. There is always the danger of a false step. But she is young. She may recover—she may recover. While there is life, there is hope; and if not,—there is the life beyond.” He spoke gently, a faint smile on his grey features, and again Frances was touched in a fashion she could hardly have explained. He was so old, so tired, so near to the life beyond of which he spoke. She said nothing, and in a few moments Elsie came in with a tea-tray. She looked at Frances, round-eyed, as she sat it down, but somewhat to her surprise she gave her no word of greeting. “Arthur said you would like your tea in here,” she said. “Is that right?” “Yes, Miss Thorold is my guest to-night,” said the old man. “Will you pour out, Miss Thorold?” Frances complied. Elsie hovered about the room as if uncertain whether to go or to remain. Mr. Dermot paid no attention to her for some seconds, then very suddenly he seemed to awake to the fact of her presence. He turned in his chair. “Pray return to your work in the farmyard!” he said. “I am sure you have no time to spare for the ordinary civilities of life.”