“I think tha needna be scared, Steve. ’E’s a kind ghawst. Whatever ’e is ’e doan’t mean thee no ’arm. T’ owd gentleman navver did when he was alive.” “Didn’ ’e? Didn’ ’e? ’E served me the woorst turn ’e could when ’e coomed between thee and me.” “Whatever makes ’ee think that, lad?” “I doan’ think it. I _know_.” “Nay, loove, tha dostna.” “’E did. ’E did, I tell thee.” “Doan’ tha say that,” she cried. “Doan’ tha say it, Stevey.” “Why shouldn’t I?” “Tha’ll set folk talking that road.” “What do they knaw to talk about?” “Ef they was to remember what tha said.” “And what did I say?” “Why, that ef annybody was to coom between thee and me, tha’d do them in.” “I wasna thinking of _’im_. Gawd knaws I wasna.” “_They_ doan’t,” she said. “_Tha_ knaws? Tha knaws I didna mean ’im?” “Aye, _I_ knaw, Steve.” “An’, Dorsy, tha ’rn’t afraid of me? Tha ’rn’t afraid of me anny more?” “Nay, lad. I loove thee too mooch. I shall navver be afraid of ’ee again. Would I coom to thee this road ef I was afraid?” “Tha’ll be afraid now.” “And what should I be afraid of?” “Why—_’im_.” “_’Im?_ I should be a deal more afraid to think of ’ee setting with ’im oop ’ere, by thysen. Wuntha coom down and sleep at aunt’s?” “That I wunna. But I shall set ’ee on t’ road passt t’ moor.” He went with her down the bridle-path and across the moor and along the main road that led through Eastthwaite. They parted at the turn where the lights of the village came in sight. The moon had risen as Steven went back across the moor. The ash-tree at the bridle-path stood out clear, its hooked, bending branches black against the grey moor-grass. The shadows in the ruts laid stripes along the bridle-path, black on grey. The house was black-grey in the darkness of the drive. Only the lighted study window made a golden square in its long wall. Before he could go up to bed he would have to put out the study lamp. He was nervous; but he no longer felt the sickening and sweating terror of the first hauntings. Either he was getting used to it, or—something had happened to him. He had closed the shutters and put out the lamp. His candle made a ring of light round the table in the middle of the room. He was about to take it up and go when he heard a thin voice calling his name: “Steven.” He raised his head to listen. The thin thread of sound seemed to come from outside, a long way off, at the end of the bridle-path. “Steven, Steven—” This time he could have sworn the sound came from inside his head, like the hiss of air in his ears. “Steven—”