moon was up in the heavens as he, an hour
later, made his way from the side of the lake, where he had been
wandering, back to the churchyard through which he had to pass to
reach the vicarage. Just before he came to the gate, however, he was
surprised, in such a solitary spot, to see a slight figure leaning
against the wall opposite the place where lay the mortal remains of
the old squire and his daughter-in-law, Hilda. He stood still and
watched; the figure appeared to be gazing steadily at the graves.
Presently it turned and saw him, and he recognized the great grey eyes
and golden hair of little Angela Caresfoot.

"Angela, my dear, what are you doing here at this time of night?" he
asked, in some surprise.

She blushed a little as she shook hands rather awkwardly with him.

"Don't be angry with me," she said in a deprecatory voice; "but I was
so lonely this evening that I came here for company."

"Came here for company! What do you mean?"

She hung her head.

"Come," he said, "tell me what you mean."

"I don't quite know myself. How can I tell you?"

He looked more puzzled than ever, and she observed it and went on:

"I will try to tell you, but you must not be cross like Pigott when
she cannot understand me. Sometimes I feel ever so much alone, as
though I was looking for something and could not find it, and then I
come and stand here and look at my mother's grave, and I get company
and am not lonely any more. That is all I know; I cannot tell you any
more. Do you think me silly? Pigott does."

"I think you are a very strange child. Are you not afraid to come here
alone at night?"

"Afraid--oh, no! Nobody comes here; the people in the village dare not
come here after dark, because they say that the ruins are full of
spirits. Jakes told me that. But I must be stupid; I cannot see them,
and I want so very much to see them. I hope it is not wrong, but I
told my father so the other day, and he turned white and was angry
with Pigott for giving me such ideas; but you know Pigott did not give
them to me at all. I am not afraid to come; I like it, it is so quiet,
and, if one listens enough in the quiet, I always think one may hear
something that other people do not hear."

"Do you hear anything, then?"

"Yes, I hear things, but I cannot understand them. Listen to the wind
in the branches of that tree, the chestnut, off which the leaf is
falling now. It says something, if only I could catch it."

"Yes, chil