sted Elsie. "I only stood there half a minute. The servants must
have let him in when they were locking up."

"Well, if it was a robber working the grindstone," answered Ida
jokingly, "he can't get into the house without Bob barking and waking
everybody up. Now, good-night; don't wake me up again."

Ida's breathing soon showed that she was once more in the land of
dreams, but try as Elsie would she could not get off to sleep. As
often as she closed her eyes she seemed to see the dark outline of the
tool-house, the single window illuminated with a ghostly glimmer, and
again she heard the hiss and whir of the grindstone as she had heard it
before.

Who could have been at work there, if Guy and Brian were both in bed? If
she had run across and opened the door of the little den, what would
she have seen? She was still lying awake thinking, when the old clock
downstairs struck three. Gradually her excitement gave place to a
sensation of drowsiness, and at length she fell asleep. Even now her
puzzled brain was not quite content to let her rest. In her dreams she
once more went downstairs, and this time the door of the tool-house
opened, and out came the grindstone of its own accord, staggering along
on its wooden stand, and whizzing round all the time with a buzzing
sound like a big angry bee. It chased her along endless passages, and up
and down countless flights of stairs. Then Brian appeared on the scene;
she rushed forward to beg his help, and in doing so awoke to find that
she was in bed.

[Illustration: THE 'GRINDSTONE']

CHAPTER II.

THE LOST CARVING-KNIFE.

There was a great deal of chattering going on at the breakfast table
next morning, seldom less than two people talking at once.

"Look here, Ida," cried Guy; "next time you come waking me up in the
middle of the night, I'll have a sponge of cold water ready for you;
see if I don't!"

"I tell you it was Elsie's fault," was the answer. "She declared she
heard some one turning the grindstone."

"Well, so I did," persisted Elsie, who did not like her word being
doubted. "I heard it quite plainly; and there was a light in the
tool-house."

"Are you sure you were not dreaming?" asked Mrs. Ormond.

"Yes, quite sure, mother."

"Did you grind any of your tools last night, Brian?"

"Oh no, aunt. I haven't touched the grindstone for a week at least.
Besides, I'm too fond of bed to get up and sharpen chisels at two
o'clock in the morning."

The sp