"Are you sure?" she murmured; adding a little doubtfully, with the remembrance of past experience: "But how?" "That you will see later on." She was to see, in another way than that he supposed. Meredith lost no time in striving to gain the prize he had set his heart upon, returning again and again to the Priory until he had won his wife. It was the last evening of their stay at the old place. On the morrow Margaret Verschoyle was to be his wife, and they were to go direct to his beautiful Devonshire home for the purpose of comfortably installing her mother there, before setting forth on the tour. Mrs. Verschoyle's health had wonderfully improved with the knowledge of her children's bright prospects; and wonders were expected from the soft Devonshire air. They had been reading a letter from Laurence, full of hope and enthusiasm for the new life he had begun in Canada, where he had chosen to make his start, Meredith having rendered the way easy for him. As they lingered on the terrace, the happy girl ventured to whisper out the confession that had to be made before she became his wife. She must have no secrets from him now. "Allan, you know now--Laurence has told you what he meant to do. But there is something else you ought to know. How shall I tell you? He thought he saw a ghost that night; but, oh, Allan, it was I!" "I don't think he would have done it after all, darling. I believe he would have made a clean breast of it in the morning, in any case." "But are you not surprised to hear it was I who played the ghost the second time?" He replied only by a caress. "I did it in the desperation of the moment, and fear gave me courage." "The first time I have heard of fear giving courage," taking the sweet face between his hands and looking into her eyes. "Oh, well! I meant fear for him. I thought--I feared that Laurence was going into your room--I watched him go; and then, putting on a long waterproof cloak, and drawing the hood over my head to look like the monk, I followed him. It was I who put the pocket-book back." "How did you manage it?" with a smile. [Illustration: "HOW DID YOU MANAGE IT?"] "You see, you had left your window a little open. I climbed the thick ivy that runs up the wall--I had often done it when a child--slipped my hand between the bars of the window, and put the book upon the table." "But you forgot to raise your hand in warning; and ghosts are not generally in such a hurry, I think, to say nothing of the size of the hand." "It was a scramble; did you hear me fall?" "I heard a little 'Oh!'" "Then you _did_ know?" "I knew Verschoyle had a very good sister." "Allan, I do not think he suspects. Ought I not to tell him the truth?" "Not yet. Since the impression has worked such good effects, as well let him remain under it for a while. Time enough to knock down the scaffolding when the building is completed--eh, darling?" _Illustrated Interviews._ XXII.--SIR ROBERT RAWLINSON, K.C.B.