“What other things?” Taking the weed from his lips, he threw the remnant amongst the shrubs, where, for a moment, it lay glowing in the gloom. “Look, at it,” said he: “is not that spark like an eye watching you and me?” He took a turn down the walk; presently returning, he went on:—“I have seen, Miss Lucy, things to me unaccountable, that have made me watch all night for a solution, and I have not yet found it.” The tone was peculiar; my veins thrilled; he saw me shiver. “Are you afraid? Whether is it of my words or that red jealous eye just winking itself out?” “I am cold; the night grows dark and late, and the air is changed; it is time to go in.” “It is little past eight, but you shall go in soon. Answer me only this question.” Yet he paused ere he put it. The garden was truly growing dark; dusk had come on with clouds, and drops of rain began to patter through the trees. I hoped he would feel this, but, for the moment, he seemed too much absorbed to be sensible of the change. “Mademoiselle, do you Protestants believe in the supernatural?” “There is a difference of theory and belief on this point amongst Protestants as amongst other sects,” I answered. “Why, Monsieur, do you ask such a question?” “Why do you shrink and speak so faintly? Are you superstitious?” “I am constitutionally nervous. I dislike the discussion of such subjects. I dislike it the more because—” “You believe?” “No: but it has happened to me to experience impressions—” “Since you came here?” “Yes; not many months ago.” “Here?—in this house?” “Yes.” “Bon! I am glad of it. I knew it, somehow; before you told me. I was conscious of rapport between you and myself. You are patient, and I am choleric; you are quiet and pale, and I am tanned and fiery; you are a strict Protestant, and I am a sort of lay Jesuit: but we are alike—there is affinity between us. Do you see it, Mademoiselle, when you look in the glass? Do you observe that your forehead is shaped like mine—that your eyes are cut like mine? Do you hear that you have some of my tones of voice? Do you know that you have many of my looks? I perceive all this, and believe that you were born under my star. Yes, you were born under my star! Tremble! for where that is the case with mortals, the threads of their destinies are difficult to disentangle; knottings and catchings occur—sudden breaks leave damage in the web. But these ‘impressions,’ as you say, with English caution. I, too, have had my ‘impressions.’” “Monsieur, tell me them.” “I desire no better, and intend no less. You know the legend of this house and garden?” “I know it. Yes. They say that hundreds of years ago a nun was buried here alive at the foot of this very tree, beneath the ground which now bears us.” “And that in former days a nun’s ghost used to come and go here.” “Monsieur, what if it comes and goes here still?”