was
about to be wedded to another. But despair gave her energy, and,
burning with indignation, she hastened to his house to upbraid him.
She reached the spot just as he was driving out with his fiancee. With
a cry of anguish, Jean rushed forward and, swinging herself nimbly on
to the fore-wheel of the coach, turned her white and passionate face
towards its occupants. For a moment, Mr. Stuart was too dumbfounded to
do anything; he could scarcely believe his senses. Who on earth was
this frantic female? Good Heavens! Jean! Impossible! How on earth had
she got there? And the tumultuous beating of his guilty heart turned
him sick and faint.

Then he glanced fearfully and covertly at his fiancee. _She_ must not
know the truth at any cost. Possibly he lost his head! At all events,
that is the kindest construction to put on his subsequent action,
for, dastardly as his behaviour had been to Jean in the past, one can
hardly imagine him capable of deliberately murdering her, and in so
horrible a fashion. There was not a second to lose; an instant more,
and the secret, that he had so assiduously hidden from the lady beside
him, would be revealed. Jean's mouth was already open to speak. He
waved her aside. She adhered to her post. He shouted to the postilion,
and the huge, lumbering vehicle was set in motion. At the first turn
of the wheels, Jean slipped from her perch, her dress caught in the
spokes, and she was crushed to death.

Her fate does not appear to have made any deep impression either on
Mr. Stuart or his lady-love, for they continued their drive.

The hauntings began that autumn. Mr. Stuart, as was only fit and
proper, being the first to witness the phenomenon. Returning home from
a drive one evening, he perceived to his surprise the dark outlines of
a human figure perched on the arched gateway of his house, exactly
opposite the spot where Jean had perished. Wondering who it could be,
he leaned forward to inspect it closer. The figure moved, an icy
current of air ran through him, and he saw to his horror the livid
countenance of the dead Jean. There she was, staring down at him with
lurid, glassy eyes; her cheeks startlingly white, her hair fluttering
in the wind, her neck and forehead bathed in blood.

Paralysed with terror, Mr. Stuart could not remove his gaze, and it
was not until one of the menials opened the carriage door to assist
him down, that the spell was broken and he was able to speak and move.
He then