He found his tongue at last and told her with boyish enthusiasm the legends of the old mansion, the associations of each room, and sketched with good-humoured criticism the peculiarities of his people. In the gallery of the observatory he showed her the spots from which the slightest sounds were echoed to the hall below, and explained the origin of many of the ghost stories which the Negroes believed with such implicit faith. Stella leaned over the railing and looked down into the hall at the chair in which her father had fallen the night of the dance, and a curious smile played about her lips. “And what are you smiling at?” he asked softly. Without the quiver of an eyelid, either in surprise or recognition of the fact that he had caught her in a moment off her guard, she replied: “I was just wondering if you ever believed in ghosts?” “Of course,” he laughed. “Really?” “Yes. When Aunt Julie Ann used to tell them to me at night in the nursery they were vivid and terrible realities.” “And you’ve laughed away all the romances of childhood now?” “No,” he answered firmly. “I halfway believe in ghosts still, and the old dreams of beauty and love, of honour and truth, seem to me more and more the only things in human life that have any value.” They had returned to the hall. Stella placed the candle on the table and sat down on the davenport. John followed her instinctively and seated himself by her side. Suddenly she placed her soft hand on his, exclaiming: “Oh! There’s one thing we’ve forgotten!” She felt him tremble at her touch. “What?” “The legend of the secret way--tell me about it--how it originated and all--of course, I know it is only a legend. Such things are only found in stories.” John looked at her, with a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “You have ceased to believe in romance, ghosts and fairies?” “I’ll believe it if you tell me,” she said softly. John took her hand and lifted her from the lounge. “Have you faith enough to follow me through the dark secret way to-night if I can find it for you?” “Yes!” she whispered, leaning toward him trustingly. “Then I’m going to do what was never done before--show this secret way to one who does not answer to the name of Graham.” Stella’s bosom rose and fell with deep emotion as she turned her brown eyes on John. “But why not?” he continued. “The house is yours. And I’m haunted with the strange fancy that your spirit has lived here before.” “I have grown to love it,” she said hesitatingly, “in spite of the tragedy. It’s strange. I wonder at myself for it.” John turned toward the panel in the wainscoting whose location he knew so well, paused and said: “I’d better wait and let you change your dress. You’ll soil it against the damp narrow walls.” Stella’s eyes were sparkling now with excitement. “No matter. I can’t wait a minute. The mystery and romance will be worth a dress. Show me the way. I’ll follow.”