I looked out once more. By this time the figure was close, close to the fly. Then an arm was stretched out and laid along the edge of the door, as if preparatory to opening it, and then, for the first time I saw his face. It was a young face, but terribly, horribly pale and ghastly, and the eyes--all was so visible in the moonlight--had an expression such as I had never seen before or since. It terrified me, though afterwards on recalling it, it seemed to me that it might have been more a look of agonised appeal than of menace of any kind. I cowered back into my corner and shut my eyes, feigning sleep. It was the only idea that occurred to me. My heart was beating like a sledge hammer. All sorts of thoughts rushed through me; among them I remember saying to myself: "He must be an escaped lunatic--his eyes are so awfully wild". How long I sat thus I don't know--whenever I dared to glance out furtively he was still there. But all at once a strange feeling of relief came over me. I sat up--yes, he was gone! And though, as I took courage, I leant out and looked round in every direction, not a trace of him was to be seen, though the road and the fields were bare and clear for a long distance round. When I got to Fawne Court I had to wake the lodge-keeper--every one was asleep. But my uncle was still up, though not expecting me, and very distressed he was at the mistake about the carriage. "However," he concluded, "all's well that ends well. It's delightful to have your good news. But you look sadly pale and tired, Charlotte." Then I told him of my fright--it seemed now so foolish of me, I said. But my uncle did not smile--on the contrary. "My dear," he said. "It sounds very like our ghost, though, of course, it may have been only one of the keepers." He told me the story. Many years ago in his grandfather's time, a young and favourite gamekeeper had been found dead in a field skirting the road down there. There was no sign of violence upon the body; it was never explained what had killed him. But he had had in his charge a watch--a very valuable one--which his master for some reason or other had handed to him to take home to the house, not wishing to keep it on him. And when the body was found late that night, the watch was not on it. Since then, so the story goes, on a moonlight night the spirit of the poor fellow haunts the spot. It is supposed that he wants to tell what had become of his master's watch, which was never found. But no one has ever had courage to address him. "He never comes farther than the dip in the road," said my uncle. "If you had spoken to him, Charlotte, I wonder if he would have told you his secret?" He spoke half laughingly, but I have never quite forgiven myself for my cowardice. It was the look in those eyes! "---- WILL NOT TAKE PLACE."