The "airy tongues," that during the whole time of our conversation had never ceased to whisper mysteriously, had now changed to a series of deep and regularly recurring sighs. They were not the creation of our fancy. Distinguishable from the murmur of the fountain was a sound as of some one breathing. It proceeded from a cluster of trees on one side of the spring. Too much surprised to speak, my uncle and I sat staring at each other without either will or power to move. Then, shaking off the spell that lay upon us, we rose and stepped on tip-toe to the spot whence came the sound, moving cautiously and softly, as though within the grove some terrible dragon lay sleeping which loud footsteps might awaken. Within the gloom created by a canopy of dense foliage we caught the gleam of something white. Our eyes, unaccustomed at first to the darkness, could distinguish nothing clearly, but gradually the object of our attention resolved itself into the seated figure of a woman. I thought at first that it was the statue of some nymph, but the eyes, shining like stars, dispelled this illusion. Four steps nearer, and I saw that it was no Dryad of the grove or Undine of the waters, but our own loved Daphne. She seemed petrified with terror. "Good heavens, Daphne!" cried her father. "What are you doing here at this hour of night?" The only reply to this question was a continuation of the deep inspirations that had drawn our attention to her. Fright had deprived her of the power of speech. "She is recovering from a swoon," said my uncle. "What can have frightened her? Daphne, dear, tell us what is the matter. All is well now. Don't be afraid. Tell us how long you have been here." "How long? Ah! a long time," she murmured, speaking like one in a dream. A sigh of relief escaped her father's lips, for her reply seemed an assurance of her sanity, and his first thought had been that fright had turned her brain. Her wild expression might well have given him this idea. "Tell me what is the matter, darling," he said, lifting her, and stroking her hair with a fatherly tenderness. "My poor little girl!" She gazed fearfully around, as if dreading some awful vision. Then closing her eyes with a shudder, she rested her head on his shoulder, and clung like a child to his embrace. "Have you not seen it?" she asked in a whisper. "We have seen nothing, that is, nothing to be frightened at. Come, open your eyes and look at me, darling. Tell me all about it. What has frightened you so?" She was so thoroughly unnerved that it was a long time before she could be induced to talk at all. When at last she _did_ reply her words were not a little startling. "O, papa. I have seen George's ghost!" My uncle shot a glance half whimsical, half nervous at me, for it was very odd that her explanation should have reference to the man of whom we ourselves had just been talking. But he affected a laugh of kindly scepticism.