What was that? A soft rustle as of ghostly garments moving in the aisle was succeeded by another sigh which made me rise from my seat, my hair stiffening. Then I saw the outline of the east window growing brighter and brighter, and I knew that the moon was about to shine clear of the clouds, and longed to turn and fly, yet did not dare to move. Suddenly the light fell on the altar steps and disclosed a kneeling form which seemed to be partly turned toward me as though watching me. The face I could not see--it was in shadow--and I stood transfixed, gazing at the figure, half in superstitious terror and half in wonder; until a voice I had not heard for years, and yet should have known among a thousand, said softly, "Francis!" "Who calls me?" I muttered hoarsely, knowing and yet disbelieving, hoping and yet with a terrible fear at heart. "It is I, Petronilla!" said the same voice gently. And then the form rose and glided toward me through the moonlight. "It is I, Petronilla. Do you not know me?" said my love again; and fell upon my breast. * * * * * She had been firmly resolved all the time not to quit her father, and on the first opportunity had given the slip to her company, while the horses were being saddled at Watney's farm. Stealing back through the darkness she had found the house full of uproar, and apparently occupied by strange troopers. Aghast and not knowing what to do, she had bethought herself of the church and there taken refuge. On my first entrance she was horribly alarmed. But as I walked up the aisle, she recognized--so she has since told me a thousand times with pride--my footstep, though it had long been a stranger to her ear, and she had no thought at the moment of seeing me, or hearing the joyful news I brought. And so my story is told. For what passed then between Petronilla and me lies between my wife and myself. And it is an old, old story, and one which our children have no need to learn, for they have told it, many of them for themselves, and their children are growing up to tell it. I think in some odd corner of the house there may still be found a very ancient swallow's nest, which young girls bring out and look at tenderly; but for my sword-knot I fear it has been worn out these thirty years. What matter, even though it was velvet of Genoa? He that has the substance, lacks not the shadow.