"I can guess that, for I asked him to-day if I could marry you. He refused, and raged worse than ever. It was then that he turned me out of his counting-house, and--well, you saw what happened. I suppose he wants you to marry someone else?" "Yes. He told me so to-day. Major Ruck." "Who is he?" demanded Paslow in a tone of anger. "I don't know. Major Simon Ruck, a retired army officer with a fine fortune, and who is fifty years of age, and----" Here there came a flash of blue lightning, and then a loud crash of thunder. Afterwards the strong wind hurtled towards them, bearing on its wings the drenching rain. Vivian was startled, and caught Beatrice to his breast in the darkness. "Darling, will you marry me?" he asked, although she was scarcely mistress yet of her emotions in the storm and gloom. Before she could answer, the pent-up feelings of the day found relief in a burst of hysterical tears. Pulling out her handkerchief she pressed it to her eyes, and at the moment felt the key, entangled in the handkerchief, fall out. "Oh," she gasped, "the key! it has fallen out of my pocket!" "I'll find it!" and Paslow dropped on to the grass, now wet, while the rain came down in torrents. "I have it!" he said, wondering at this queer disconnected wooing, and rose with the key in his hand. "My dear, let us stand further under the tree, and then we can talk." "No! no!" Beatrice was quite unstrung by this time. "I must go home at once. It is late, and my father--my--ah! who is that?" Flash after flash of lightning, blue and vivid, illuminated the haunted tree, as though once again the witches were holding their demoniac revels. A short distance away stood a small man. Neither of the lovers could see his features in the fitful illumination. Vivian, with a cry of anger, ran straight towards the figure, and it disappeared. Tales of the spectres said to haunt the tree occurred to the mind of Beatrice, and, unstrung, and not mistress of herself, she left the oak and hurried across the glade. The lightning was flashing incessantly, and the thunder roared like artillery, while the steady rain spattered through the trees' tops. Trying to find the path which led to the lane, Beatrice ran on. She fancied she heard the voice of Paslow shouting, but again pealed the thunder to drown what he said. Losing her head--and small wonder, so terrific was the storm--Beatrice scrambled on through many paths, and finally, when there came an unusually vivid flash, she sank with a cry of terror under some bushes, and fainted on the streaming ground. How long she remained unconscious she did not know.