I thought my grandfather took it, but the flame of my wax match showed her fingers, clasping the wires of the lantern. The cloak slipped away, showing her arm’s soft curve, the blue and white of her bodice, the purple blur of violets; and for a second I saw her face, with a smile quivering about her lips. My grandfather was beating impatiently with his stick, urging us to leave the lantern and go on. “Let it alone,” he said. “I’ll go down through the chapel; there’s a lantern in there somewhere.” “I’m awfully sorry,” she remarked; “but I recently lost my best lantern!” To be sure she had! I was angry that she should so brazenly recall the night I found her looking for Pickering’s notes in the passage at the Door of Bewilderment! She had lifted the lantern now, and I was striving to touch the wax taper to the wick, with imminent danger to my bare fingers. “They don’t really light well when the oil’s out,” she observed, with an exasperating air of wisdom. I took it from her hand and shook it close to my ear. “Yes; of course, it’s empty,” I muttered disdainfully. “Oh, Mr. Glenarm!” she cried, turning away toward my grandfather. I heard his stick beating the rough path several yards away. He was hastening toward Glenarm House. “I think Mr. Glenarm has gone home.” “Oh, that is too bad!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! He’s probably at the chapel by this time. If you will permit me—” “Not at all!” A man well advanced in the sixties should not tax his arteries too severely. I was quite sure that my grandfather ran up the chapel steps; I could hear his stick beating hurriedly on the stone. “If you wish to go farther”—I began. I was indignant at my grandfather’s conduct; he had deliberately run off, leaving me alone with a young woman whom I particularly wished to avoid. “Thank you; I shall go back now. I was merely walking to the gate with Mr. Glenarm. It is so fine to have him back again, so unbelievable!” It was just such a polite murmur as one might employ in speaking to an old foe at a friend’s table. She listened a moment for his step; then, apparently satisfied, turned back toward St. Agatha’s. I followed, uncertain, hesitating, marking her definite onward flight. From the folds of the cloak stole the faint perfume of violets. The sight of her, the sound of her voice, combined to create—and to destroy!—a mood with every step. I was seeking some colorless thing to say when she spoke over her shoulder: “You are very kind, but I am not in the least afraid, Mr. Glenarm.” “But there is something I wish to say to you. I should like—” She slackened her step. “Yes.” “I am going away.” “Yes; of course; you are going away.” Her tone implied that this was something that had been ordained from the beginning of time, and did not matter. “And I wish to say a word about Mr. Pickering.”