"After all," I said, "it has not hurt any of us. Miss Larpent got a shake, so did I. But it wasn't as great a shock to us as to you, Phil, to have to believe in a ghost. And we can avoid the gallery while you are away. No, except for Dormy, I would rather keep it to ourselves--after all, we are not going to live here always. Yet it is so nice, it seems such a pity." It was such an exquisite morning; the air, faintly breathing of the sea, was like elixir; the heights and shadows on the cliffs, thrown out by the darker woods behind, were indeed, as Janet Miles had said, "wonderful". "Yes," Phil agreed, "it is an awful nuisance. But as for Dormy," he went on, "supposing I get mother to let me take him with me? He'd be as jolly as a sand-boy in London, and my old landlady would look after him like anything if ever I had to be out late. And I'd let my doctor see him--quietly, you know--he might give him a tonic or something." I heartily approved of the idea. So did mamma when Phil broached it--she, too, had thought her "baby" looking quite pale lately. A London doctor's opinion would be such a satisfaction. So it was settled, and the very next day the two set off. Dormer, in his "old-fashioned," reticent way, in the greatest delight, though only by one remark did the brave little fellow hint at what was, no doubt, the principal cause of his satisfaction. "The moon will be long past the full when we come back," he said. "And after that there'll only be one other time before we go, won't there, Leila? We've only got this house for three months?" "Yes," I said, "father only took it for three," though in my heart I knew it was with the option of three more--six in all. And Miss Larpent and I were left alone, not with the ghost, certainly, but with our fateful knowledge of its unwelcome proximity. We did not speak of it to each other, but we tacitly avoided the gallery, even, as much as possible, in the daytime. I felt, and so, she has since confessed, did she, that it would be impossible to endure _that cold_ without betraying ourselves. And I began to breathe more freely, trusting that the dread of the shadow's possible return was really only due to the child's overwrought nerves. Till--one morning--my fool's paradise was abruptly destroyed. Father came in late to breakfast--he had been for an early walk, he said, to get rid of a headache. But he did not look altogether as if he had succeeded in doing so. "Leila," he said, as I was leaving the room after pouring out his coffee--mamma was not yet allowed to get up early--"Leila, don't go. I want to speak to you." I stopped short, and turned towards the table. There was something very odd about his manner. He is usually hearty and eager, almost impetuous in his way of speaking. "Leila," he began again, "you are a sensible girl, and your nerves are strong, I fancy. Besides, you have not been ill like the others. Don't speak of what I am going to tell you."