ing
many, very many of their fragrant leaves were crushed and broken, as if
in truth some houseless or despairing being had crouched there.

The housemaids told their tale next morning, and it was instantly
whispered in the house that the ghost had come again. The maids shook
with fear as they went about, even in broad daylight. The gardener alone
was incredulous, and made game of the matter.

"Hang the ghost!" said he; but then he came from the eastern counties,
and had no reverence for the old family "fetch." "Hang the ghost! why
shouldn't that shadow have been the brown pony? Ain't he out at grass,
and didn't I find the garden-door ajar this morning? He came in, I'll be
bound." Then the gardener shouldered his spade, and finding a number of
footmarks all over the place, specially about the bed of lilies, and
certainly not those of a pony, he carefully obliterated them, and held
his peace. Shaking his head when alone, and muttering, "They're a queer
lot, these Melcombes--who'd have expected this now! If the dead ones
don't walk, the live ones do. Restless, that's what it is. Restless, too
much to eat. I should say, and too little to do. When the missis comes
we shall have more sensible doings, and I wish the missis had never left
us, that I do."

Mrs. Peter Melcombe, thus welcomed back again in the gardener's mind,
was then driving up to the door of Melcombe House, and Valentine was
stepping out to receive her.

It was natural that she should feel agitated, and Valentine accosted her
so seriously as to increase her emotion. She had been able to recover
her usually equable spirits after the loss of her child, it was only on
particular occasions that she now gave way to tears. She was by no
means of their number who love to make a parade of grief; on the
contrary, emotion was painful to her, and she thankfully avoided it when
she could.

She retired with Laura, and after a reasonable time recovered herself,
taking care to go at once into the room where her darling had slept, and
where he had played, that she might not again be overcome.

"I have dreaded this inexpressibly," she said, sobbing, to Laura, who
was following her with real sympathy.

"Valentine was very odd," answered Laura; "you would, I am sure, have
got over your return quite calmly, if he had been less solemn. Surely,
Amelia dear, he is altered."

"He was oppressed, no doubt, at sight of me; he felt for me."

Laura said no more, but several tim