Again, on the following night, he lay enfolded in his cloak, or leaned against a distant tree, or paced like a sentinel his lonely round, with his eyes fixed on the light in Katharine’s chamber, and his meditations were sweet. But how tenderly he had been rocked in the cradle of sorrow, and how willingly he had allowed the true state of his own heart to be hidden from himself by fancied consolations, was evident, when, on returning from his watch upon the third morning, he learned from his hostess that the doctor had come home very early, and said, that the dear lady was out of danger. He had just command enough over his feelings not to betray to her that he took a private and deep interest in her intelligence; but, rushing up to his room, his hopes, his fears, his grief, his joy, his gratitude, gushed forth from his pent-up bosom in a flood of silent tears. He wept upon his knees. CHAP. XIII. What man was he talked with you? _Much Ado about Nothing._ It was not till the crisis of danger was already past that the illness of Katharine became known at Bolton Grange, or at Old Beech. Jane Lambert was no sooner apprised of it than she hastened to her friend, and insisted, with all the devotion and tenderness of a sister, on being permitted to divide with Mistress Alice the duties of her present charge. Katharine loved Jane, and was comforted to have her seated near her, and was soothed by her affection: it was evident, however, to the latter, that something weighed heavily upon the spirits of her friend, and that the feelings of hope and the clear promise of recovery, did not impart to her all the gratitude and cheerfulness which might be naturally expected in the pleasant dawn of convalescence. She had not been many days at Milverton when an incident occurred which discovered the cause of her anxiety. As Jane was looking from the window in the afternoon, and remarking to Katharine on the beautiful effect of the low autumn lights, she observed the figure of a man with folded arms leaning near a tree in the beechery, and she playfully exclaimed, “That must certainly be the musical ghost, which played so sweetly, and brought us all such bad luck, and frightened every body in Milverton House but your dear self, and the grave Master Cuthbert:--how I should like to have the treacherous creature caught.” “Dear lady,” said Katharine’s maid, “how can you talk so boldly?--why nobody can catch a spirit. It is only air.” “I have a notion, good lass,” replied Jane, “that it is very proper flesh and blood, and if I were a man, and not a maid, would try my speed with it, and bring it to parley. I should like to hear the voice of it, or see its face, and tell it of all the mischief it has done.”