e inaccuracy of
recollection which even a scientific man will be guilty of. I could see
now the light of my lantern gleaming upon the wet glistening surface of
the spiky leaves at the right hand,--and he ready to go to the stake for
it that it was the left! I went round to make sure. And then I saw what
he had said. Right or left there was no juniper at all! I was confounded
by this, though it was entirely a matter of detail nothing at all,--a
bush of brambles waving, the grass growing up to the very walls. But
after all, though it gave me a shock for a moment, what did that matter?
There were marks as if a number of footsteps had been up and down in
front of the door, but these might have been our steps; and all was
bright and peaceful and still. I poked about the other ruin--the larger
ruins of the old house--for some time, as I had done before. There were
marks upon the grass here and there--I could not call them
footsteps--all about; but that told for nothing one way or another. I had
examined the ruined rooms closely the first day. They were half filled up
with soil and _debris_, withered brackens and bramble,--no refuge for any
one there. It vexed me that Jarvis should see me coming from that spot
when he came up to me for his orders. I don't know whether my nocturnal
expeditions had got wind among the servants, but there was a significant
look in his face. Something in it I felt was like my own sensation when
Simson in the midst of his scepticism was struck dumb. Jarvis felt
satisfied that his veracity had been put beyond question. I never spoke
to a servant of mine in such a peremptory tone before. I sent him away
"with a flea in his lug," as the man described it afterwards.
Interference of any kind was intolerable to me at such a moment.

But what was strangest of all was, that I could not face Roland. I did
not go up to his room, as I would have naturally done, at once. This the
girls could not understand. They saw there was some mystery in it.
"Mother has gone to lie down," Agatha said; "he has had such a good
night." "But he wants you so, papa!" cried little Jeanie, always with her
two arms embracing mine in a pretty way she had. I was obliged to go at
last, but what could I say? I could only kiss him, and tell him to keep
still,--that I was doing all I could. There is something mystical about
the patience of a child. "It will come all right, won't it, father?" he
said. "God grant it may! I hope so, Roland."