“Why not?” he asked. “I never had any intention of going there!” “You are very angry with me,” she cried in despair. “I--I--” Her lip quivered. Wingrave interposed. “I shall be happy to go and have a look at the place,” he said carelessly, “if you will drive me back. I fancy I have almost forgotten what it is like.” She looked at him as at one who had spoken irreverently. Her eyes were full of wonder. “I think that you must have indeed forgotten,” she said, “how very beautiful it is. It is your home too! There is no one else,” she added softly, “who can live there, amongst all those wonderful things, and call it really--home!” “I am afraid,” he said, “you will find that I have outlived all sentiment; but I will certainly come to Tredowen with you!” GHOSTS OF DEAD THINGS “It was here,” she said, as they passed through the walled garden seawards, “that I saw you first--you and the other gentleman who was so kind to me.” Wingrave nodded. “I believe that I remember it,” he said; “you were a mournful-looking object in a very soiled pinafore and most untidy hair.” “I had been out on the cliffs,” she reminded him, “where I am taking you now. If you are going to make unkind remarks about my hair, I think that I had better fetch a hat.” “Pray don’t leave me,” he answered. “I should certainly lose my way. Your hair in those days was, I fancy, a little more--unkempt!” She laughed. “It used to be cut short,” she said. “Hideous! There! Isn’t that glorious?” She had opened the postern gate in the wall, and through the narrow opening was framed a wonderful picture of the Cornish sea, rolling into the rock-studded bay. Its soft thunder was in their ears; salt and fragrant, the west wind swept into their faces. She closed the gate behind her, and stepped blithely forward. “Come!” she cried. “We will climb the cliffs where we left you alone once before.” Side by side they stood looking over the ocean. Her head was thrown back, her lips a little parted. He watched her curiously. “You must have sea blood in your veins,” he remarked. “You listen as though you heard music all the time.” “And what about you?” she asked him, smiling. “You are the grandson of Admiral Sir Wingrave Seton who commanded a frigate at Trafalgar, and an ancestor of yours fought in the Armada.” “I am afraid,” he said quietly, “that there is a hiatus in my life somewhere. There are no voices which call to me any more, and my family records are so much dead parchment.” Trouble passed into her glowing face and clouded her eyes. “Ah!” she said, “I do not like to hear you talk so. Do you know that when you do, you make me afraid that something I have always hoped for will never come to pass?” “What is it?” he asked.