Evening fell, and we were still sitting there. Not a footstep sounded in the house beneath us; not a voice but the birds’ came from the garden. Presently, emboldened by the quiet, I went softly climbing and investigating, finding the trap-door by way of which the chaplain had ascended, and peeping between the gables and over the roof ridges. So far as I could see, nothing human was stirring in all the placid demesne. The sundial on the lawn, the arbour in the corner, the brook embroidering the low trees, like a ribbon run through lace, were things inanimate in a painted picture. But there was something in their voiceless watchfulness that made me long to open the door, as it were, and run into the air. I was not born, like my mother, for cloisteral seclusions. I was passing my companion once soft-footed, when he startled me by demanding, suddenly and savagely, “What’s your name?” “Diana, please,” I answered, in a flutter. “_Diana--Please!_” he protested crossly. “Fah! Diana Please don’t please”--and he subsided into himself again. But he had christened me. I had gone lacking nothing but a name of my own hitherto and here was one given me, apt and pat. From that moment I became Diana Please. The very sense of its possession made me forward. “Aren’t we safe now?” I said, “or are you going to stop here all night?” He looked up at me hurriedly, and, scowling, motioned me away from him. Then, without a word, he snatched his book, rose, and striding to the trap-door, began to descend. I followed him closely. The way led by a flight of steps in the walls to a cupboard under the main stairs where they rose from the hall. We emerged from darkness into a wide echoing twilight. For the first time the thought of my master secreted somewhere, watchful and waiting for me, sent my spirits reeling. I slunk against the wall. “Where was it?” demanded my companion brusquely. I stared at him. He stamped his foot, so that the noise resounded horribly through the empty house. “The steward!” he cried. “Where did they leave him?” “By the door,” I whispered, trembling--“out there.” It was still ajar. He hurried to it, looked out, went out, returned after a minute or two, and slammed the oak thunderously. “There are trails of blood down the steps. He has been removed, or has removed himself,” he said, and began immediately to ascend the stairs. “O, where are you going?” I cried fearfully. “To bed,” he snapped. “To bed!” I clung to his coat-tails. There was a sort of nightmare struggle between us, up as far as the first landing. There he rent himself away, and, leaving me sprawling, banged and locked himself into a room. I crouched on the mat outside, sobbing and imploring. “What am I to do? Where am I to go?”