Thornton shrugged his shoulders. "I can only give you my own experience. I occupied the room once, when home on a college vacation. The house was filled with visitors, and I was put in the southwest chamber. Everything went on very smoothly until one night I decided to cram for an examination, and took my books to my room. I had an ordinary oil lamp on the table by my bed, and so commenced reading. After I had been reading about an hour the lamp went out suddenly. I struck a match and relit it; again it was extinguished. We kept that up most of the night; then I gathered my belongings and spent the rest of the time before breakfast on the sofa in the library, where I was not disturbed by the whims of the ghost of my spinster great-aunt." "'There are more things in Heaven and earth,'" quoted Eleanor, as she rose in obedience to a signal from Mrs. Truxton. "Where shall we go, Uncle Dana?" as they strolled out into the hall. "Into the library. Nicodemus will serve coffee there, and, if you ladies have no objection, Douglas and I will smoke there also." "Why, certainly," exclaimed Mrs. Truxton, picking out a comfortable chair and signaling Douglas to take the one next hers, and without more ado she plunged into questions relating to his family history. He cast longing glances at Eleanor, but she refused to take the hint conveyed, and, to his secret annoyance, walked out of the room shortly after. Cynthia was having an animated conversation with Colonel Thornton and sipping her coffee when, happening to look in the direction of the hall door, she saw Eleanor standing there, beckoning to her. Making a hurried excuse to the Colonel, she joined Eleanor in the hall, who, without a word, slipped her arm about her waist and led her into the drawing-room. "What is----?" The words died in her throat as she caught sight of a tall, soldierly figure standing under the chandelier. Eleanor discreetly vanished, closing the hall door softly behind her as she went. "You!" Cynthia shrank back against the wall as Lane stepped forward. "Cynthia, darling!" He held out his arms pleadingly, but with a moan she turned her face from him. His eyes flashed with indignation. "Cynthia, you have no right to condemn me unheard. I am innocent." He approached her and gently took her hand in his. Her eyes were closed, and a few tears forced themselves under the lids, the scalding teardrops that come when the fountain is dry and only bitter grief forces such expression of sorrow. "Dear one, look at me. I am not guilty. I have forced myself upon you because I want you to understand"--he spoke slowly, as if reasoning with a child--"that I am absolutely innocent...." "Not in thought!" burst in Cynthia.