r little thing! Eunice is the
only one who seems to know anything at all about it."

"And what does Eunice say?" asked Kate.

"Why," said Captain Danton, "it seems Eunice and Agnes were to sit up
for you two young ladies, who are not able to take off your own clothes
yet, and they chose Rose's room so sit in. About two hours ago, Agnes
complained of toothache, and said she would go down stairs for some
painkiller that was in the sewing-room. Eunice, who was half-asleep,
remained where she was; and ten minutes after heard a scream that
frightened her out of her wits. We had all retired, but the night-lamp
was burning; and rushing out, she found Agnes leaning against the wall,
all white and trembling. The moment Eunice spoke to her, 'I saw his
ghost!' she said, in a choking whisper, and fell back in a dead faint in
Eunice's arms. I found her so when I came out, for Eunice cried lustily
for help, and Grace and all the servants were there in two minutes. We
did everything for her, but all in vain. She lay like one dead. Then
Grace proposed to send for her brother. We sent. He came, and brought
the dead to life."

"An extraordinary tale," said Reginald Stanford. "When she came to life,
what did she say?"

"Nothing. Doctor Frank gave her an opiate that soothed her and sent her
to sleep."

As he spoke, Doctor Frank himself appeared, his calm face as
impenetrable as ever.

"How is your patient, Doctor?" asked Kate.

"Much better, Miss Kate. In a day or two we will have her all right, I
think. She is a nervous little creature, with an overstrung and highly
imaginative temperament. I wonder she has not seen ghosts long ago."

"You are not thinking of leaving us," said Captain Danton. "No, no, I
won't hear of it. We can give you a bed and breakfast here equal to
anything down at the hotel, and it will save you a journey up to-morrow
morning. Is Grace with her yet?"

"Yes, Grace insists on remaining till morning. There is no necessity,
though, for she will not awake."

Kate gathered up the folds of her rich ball-dress, and ran up the
polished oaken stair, nodding adieu. Not to her own room, however, but
to that of the seamstress.

The small chamber was dimly lighted by a lamp turned low. By the bedside
sat Grace, wrapped in a shawl; on the pillow lay the white face of Agnes
Darling, calm in her slumber, but colourless as the pillow itself.

Kate bent over her, and Grace arose at her entrance. It was such a
contrast;