“Are you afraid of ghosts? There's only one ghost lives here, Philip, the memory of your dear father, and that will never harm you.” “But this place is too sacred. No one has slept here since----” “That's why, dearest. But now you have justified your father's hopes, and it must be your room for the future. Ah! if he could only see you himself, how proud he would be! Poor father! Perhaps he does. Who knows--perhaps--kiss me, Philip. See what an old silly I am, after all. So happy that I have to cry. But mind now, you've got to sleep in this room every time you come to hold court in Ramsey. I refuse to share you with Elm Cottage any longer. Talk about jealousy! If Pete isn't jealous, I know somebody who is--or soon will be. But Philip--Philip Christian----” “Yes?” The sweet old face grew solemn. “The greatest man has his cares and doubts and divisions. That's only natural--out in the open field of life. But don't be ashamed to come here whenever you are in trouble. It's what home is for, Philip. Just a place of peace and shelter from the rough world, when it wounds and hurts you. A quiet spot, dear, with memories of father and mother and innocent childhood--and with an old goose of an auntie, maybe, who thinks of you all day and every day, and is so vain and foolish--and--and who loves you. Philip, better than anybody in the World.” Philip's arms were about the old soul, but he had not heard her. With a terrified glance towards the window, he was saying in a low quick voice, “Isn't that a footstep on the gravel?” “N--o, no! You're nervous to-night, Philip. Lie and rest. When you're asleep, I'll creep back and look at you.” She left him, and he looked around. Not in all the world could Philip have found a spot so full of terrors. It was like a sepulchre of dead things--his dead father, his dead mother, his dead youth, his dead innocence, his slaughtered friendship, and his outraged conscience. Over the fireplace hung a portrait of his mother. It was the picture of a comely girl, young and soft, with full ripe lips and bright brown eyes. Philip shuddered as he looked at it. The portrait was like the ghost of himself looking through the veil of a woman's face. Facing this, and hanging over the side of the bed, was a portrait of his father. The eyes were full of light, the lines of the cheek were round; the mouth seemed to quiver with a tender smile. But Philip could not see it as it was. He saw it with straggling hair, damp and long as reeds, the cheeks pallid and drawn, the eyes like lamps in a mist, the throat bare of the shirt, and the lips kept apart by laboured breathing. Near the window stood the cot where he had once slept with Pete, and leaped up in the morning and laughed. On every hand, wherever his eye could rest, there rose a phantom of his lost and buried life. And Auntie Nannie's love and pride had brought him to this chamber of torture!