"It was scratched by the dog," answered Nora. "And every one knows it's a sign that death's coming to the house, or to some one belonging to the house. Whether it's your own dog scratches it, or somebody else's dog, no matter; it's a sure sign that a real grave is about to be dug. It may not happen once in fifty years--no, not in a hundred; but when it does come, it's a warning not to be neglected." "It's odd how the dogs can know!" remarked Ann Canham, meekly. "Those dumb animals possess an instinct we can't understand," said Nora. "We have had that dog ever so many years, and he never did such a thing before. Rely upon it, it's Jim Sanders's warning. How you stare, George!" "I may well stare, to hear you," was George's answer. "How can you put faith in such rubbish, Nora?" "Just hark at him!" exclaimed Nora. "Boys are half heathens. I wouldn't laugh in that irreverent way, if I were you, George, because Jim Sanders's time has come." "I am not laughing at that," said George; "I am laughing at you. Nora, your argument won't hold water. If the dog had meant to give notice that he was digging a hole for Jim Sanders, he would have dug it before his own door, not before ours." "Go on!" cried Nora, sarcastically. "There's no profit arguing with unbelieving boys. They'd stand it to your face the sun never shone." Ann Canham rose, and put her chair back in its place with much humility. Indeed, humility was her chief characteristic. "I'll come round in the morning, and know about the wash, if you please, ma'am," she said to Nora. "Father will be wanting his supper, and will wonder where I'm staying." She departed. Nora gave George a lecture upon unbelief and irreverence in general, but George was too busy with his books to take much notice of it. The evening went on. Mrs. Ryle and Trevlyn returned, the latter a diminutive boy, with dark curls and a handsome face. "Jim Sanders is much better," remarked Mrs. Ryle. "He is all right again now, and will be at work in a day or two. It must have been a sort of fainting-fit he had this afternoon, and his wife got frightened. I told him to rest to-morrow, and come up the next day if he felt strong enough." George turned to Nora, his eyes dancing. "What of the hole now?" he asked. "Wait and see," snapped Nora. "And if you are impertinent, I'll never save you pie or pudding again." Mrs. Ryle went into the sitting-room, but came back speedily when she found it dark and untenanted. "Where's the master?" she exclaimed. "Surely he has returned from Barmester!" "Papa came home ages ago," said George. "He has gone up to the Hold." "The Hold?" repeated Mrs. Ryle in surprise, for there was something like deadly feud between Trevlyn Hold and Trevlyn Farm. George explained; telling of Mr. Chattaway's message, and the subsequent proceedings. Nora added that "as sure as fate, he was having it out with Chattaway." Nothing else would keep him at Trevlyn Hold.