g me to ask Ela to grant him an interview. I asked her, but
she refused in scorn; and when I carried him her refusal, he sent her
this note of love and reproach. He also told me he would stay in the
neighborhood several days, hoping she would relent. That is the true
story, and if you wish to verify it, Love, you can easily find Mr.
Ashley at Caldwell Station, and he will settle all your doubts."

"I have never had a doubt of you, my darling," he answered, bending
forward to kiss her tenderly, as he continued: "But what shameful
duplicity to deceive my step-mother with this false story, for I am sure
she believed every word she was telling me! But never mind; I will get
even with Miss Craye, be sure of that, Dainty. And now I have to tell
you of another story. It is said that you have hysterical spells every
night, declaring that you are haunted by the mythical old monk, with the
consumption. Is this true?"

Instantly the fair, rosy face became pale and downcast, and Dainty
shuddered as if an icy blast had swept over her lissom form.

"Oh, who has told you this?" she cried, regretfully.

"The story was told Mrs. Ellsworth by Sheila Kelly. Is it true?" he
demanded, earnestly; and the girl bowed her golden head sorrowfully,
faltering:

"Oh, do not be angry with me, Love, but it is true!"

"True? Then why have you kept it from me?" he cried.

"Oh, Love, they told me you always grew angry when you heard anything
about the Ellsworth ghost. They warned me that you would never forgive
the mention of it. But I can not tell you an untruth. Since you ask me,
I must own everything, and take the bitter consequences."

She bowed her fair face in her little white hands, and her form shook as
with ague, in spite of the heat of the July weather.

"Since I came to Ellsworth," she cried, "there has never been a night
but I have been tortured by the sight or sound of that old sick man. In
the dead of night I have felt his cold, clammy hand on my brow, and
wakened, sobbing with fright, sometimes to see his dark form fading from
sight, and the echo of his hollow cough ringing in my horrified ears.
Yet that Sheila Kelly, on her cot across the room, slept heavily on and
heard nothing. What secret agonies I have nightly endured only the
angels can ever know, Love; but I bore it all rather than incur the risk
of your anger and contempt. They had told you I was a coward, and I was
trying to be brave, and not to tell you--to tell you--"