"Not at all. Her head pained her, but she was merry enough. I remember her laughing early in the evening. She drew aside the curtain by my direction to see what sort of a night it was, and exclaimed that it was snowing. Then she laughed, and said how poor Susan would be disappointed, for her mother would be sure not to let her come up through the snow. Susan was to have brought up a letter they had received from the brother." "And what is the tale about Susan coming up when the snow was over, and hearing screams? Did you hear them in the house?" "No; none of us heard anything of the kind." "But if, as I am told Susan says, it was her sister who screamed in the room, some of you must have heard it." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ella. "Uncle Gilbert's sitting-room--I had gone down to him then--is very remote from the north wing; and so are the shut-in kitchen apartments. Aaron ought to have heard down in the hall, but he says he did not." "Then, in point of fact, nobody heard these cries but Susan?" "Yes; Tom, the coachman's boy, heard them. Tom had been out of doors doing something for his father, and was close to the stables, going in again, when he heard two screams, the last one much fainter than the other. Tom says the cries had a sort of muffled sound, and for that reason he thought they were inside the house. So far, poor Susan's account is borne out." "And the house-doors were found still fastened in the morning?" "Bolted and barred and locked as usual, when old Aaron undid them. More snow had fallen in the night, covering the ground well. Katherine has never been heard of in any way since." Mr. Kettle sat revolving the tale. It was quite beyond his comprehension. "In point of fact, the girl disappeared," he said presently; "I can make nothing more of it than that." "That is the precise word for it--disappeared," assented Ella, in a low tone. "And so unaccountably that it seems just as if she had vanished into air. The feeling of discomfort it has left amongst us in Heron Dyke can never be described." "Do you still sleep in the north wing?" asked Maria, the thought occurring to her. "Oh no. I changed my room after that." Ella had told all she had to tell. But the theme was full of interest, and the vicar and Maria plied her with questions all through luncheon, to which meal they made her stay. She left when it was over; her uncle might want her; and Maria put on her bonnet to walk with her a portion of the way. Their road took them past the "Leaning Gate." Mrs. Keen was having the sign repainted--a swinging gate that hung aloft beside the inn. A girl, the one young servant kept, stood with her arms a-kimbo, looking up at the process. The landlady was a short, active, bustling woman, with a kind, motherly face and pleasant dark eyes. "How do you do, Mrs. Keen?" called out Maria, as they were passing.