“Why should a ghost come now?” she asked, harping upon her morbid fancies. “There has never been a hint of a ghost in all the years that father and mother have lived here. Why should one come now, unless——” “Unless what, love?” “Unless one of the Strangways died last night—at the very moment when we heard the footfall—died in some distant land, perhaps, and with his last dying thought revisited the place of his birth. One has heard of such things.” “One has heard of a great many strange things. The human imagination is very inventive.” “Ah, you are a sceptic, I know. I don’t think I actually believe in ghosts—but I am afraid of being forced to believe in them. Oh, Godfrey, if it were meant for a warning,” she cried, with sudden terror in the large dark eyes. “What kind of warning?” “A presage of misfortune—sickness—death. I have read so many stories of such warnings.” “My dearest love, you have read too much rubbish in that line. Your mind is full of morbid fancies. If the morning were not too warm, I should say put on your habit and let us go for a long ride. I am afraid this sauntering life of ours is too depressing for you.” “Depressing—to be with you all day! Oh, Godfrey, _you_ must be tired of _me_ if you can suggest such a thing.” “But, my Nita, when I see you giving yourself up to gloomy speculations about ghosts and omens.” “Oh, that means nothing. When one has a very precious treasure one must needs be full of fears. Look at misers; how nervous they are about their hidden gold. And my treasure is more to me than all the gold of Ophir—infinitely precious.” She sprang up from her low chair, and leaned over the back of his to kiss the broad brow which was lifted up to meet those clinging lips. “Oh, my love, my love, I never knew what fear meant till I knew the fear of parting from you,” she murmured. “Put on your habit, Nita. We will go for a ride in spite of the sun. Or what do you say to driving to Dorchester, and storming your cousins for a lunch? I want to talk to Mr. Dalbrook about Skinner’s bill of dilapidations.” Her mood changed in an instant. “That would be capital fun,” she cried. “I wonder if it is a breach of etiquette to lunch with one’s cousins during one’s honeymoon?” “A fig for etiquette. Thomas,” to an approaching footman, “order the phaeton for half-past eleven.” “What a happy idea,” said Juanita, “a long, long drive with you, and then the fun of seeing how you get on with my strong-minded cousins. They pretend to despise everything that other girls care for, don’t you know; and go in for literature, science, politics, every thing intellectual, in short; and I have seen them sit and nurse Darwin or Buckle for a whole evening, while they have talked of gowns and bonnets and other girls’ flirtations.” “Then they are not such Roman maidens as they affect to be.” “Far from it. They will take the pattern of my frock with their eyes before I have been in the room ten minutes. Just watch them.”