The Ghost of Fressingfield Grange.

By M. F. W.
(Mabel Fitzroy Wilson, 1863-1952)
Author of "WHICH OF THEM," "OUT OF A CEDAR ROOM," etc. etc.

"WELL, Packard, this is a nice cold night; it seems as if winter had come upon us all at once."

       "Yes, sir, very cold, sir; never remember such severe weather in October before, sir. Let me take your coat, sir. Here, Betsy, Mr. Reginald's coat is quite wet, dry it at once. What will you take, sir?"

       Mine host bustled about, while the young man stamped his feet to get back circulation, and flicked the snow from his boots with the end of his riding whip.

       Clad in one of the old-fashioned driving coats, which young men of the present day have elected to wear in imitation of their grandfathers, he looked as if he might have stepped out of the last century to complete a scene already picturesque.

       The bar of the old inn glowed warmly with light and life. Round the ample hearth lounged three or four labourers with clay pipe and "half pint" discussing the last rural gossip. Dancing firelight played on the old walls, and made the shining pewters glitter again. It lighted up the buxom face of Betsy, whose cheeks rivalled the pink ribbons in her cap. A tall grandfather clock ticked out the passing moments with solemn regularity. It was altogether a scene to make a man wish to stay, after the biting north-east wind outside.

       The new comer felt it so.

       "You are wonderfully comfortable in here," he said, advancing to the fire. "Nay, do not move," as the rustics, with awkward politeness, edged away to make room for him; "I am only going to stay a few minutes."

       "There's a fire in the parlour, sir, if you will come; this way, sir, it's quite warm, sir. My missus, she was expecting a few friends — not a bit, sir," as the traveller murmured some words of expostulation — "they won't be here for another hour yet, sir; and she would be real vexed at your being put out in any way, sir."

       The young man sat down in a large arm chair which his host had drawn forward, and spread out his hands to the welcome blaze.

       "It is cold," he repeated again, and gave himself up to the enjoyment of the moment.

       The inn parlour was long and low, roomy and old-fashioned. An oak table, dark with age, and a few equally old chairs, formed the principal furniture, if we except an antique bureau, in one corner, whose brass handles and topmost adornment of blue china, would have driven a collector crazy with envy. The carpet, now much worn, showed signs of having been made in the days when things were meant to last; and the red moreen curtains drawn over the lattice window, displayed more than one darn which was a miracle of needlework.

       Reginald Manningham knew it all by heart; had known it ever since he was a boy, and used to look upon the inn par lour as the best place in the world, just because it was forbidden ground. How often he had come down there and eaten the brown Ribstone pippins, or slices of cold plum pudding which Mistress Packard brought forth from her stores! Nothing had ever tasted so good since. His thoughts strayed a little as he leant back in his chair, growing drowsy in the warmth. The firelight, blazing up, brought out his face in full relief. Not particularly good-looking, but a nice, strong face with a square jaw, and deep grey eyes, which looked straight at the world and defied it to impose on their owner.

       Mine host's entrance with jug and tankard roused him.

       He drank off a long draught, and set down the empty tankard, with a sigh of relief.

       "Don't go, Packard; have a glass yourself and sit down and tell me the news. Anything been happening? Have you seen my father lately?"

       "Not very lately, sir. The squire has not been round these parts for the last two months. He keeps more to himself than ever, and it isn't good for him to be so much alone: particular when —– But, maybe, sir, you're down for a bit?"

       He glanced anxiously at the young man across the hearth. The latter coloured a little under his interlocutor's gaze.

       "You think I ought to be down here more, eh, Packard, instead of wasting my time in London? But what should I do? My father does not really want me."

       "No, sir, no. I shouldn't presume to interfere, but the missus and me, we often do say it would be nice to have Master Reginald living at the Grange, and, maybe, married — no offence, sir." He paused, and glanced anxiously at his guest.

       "All right, Packard," returned the other, good-naturedly, "and perhaps you have chosen the young lady for me, as I do not seem able to do so for myself."

       The elder man surveyed him with knitted brows, trying to discover if he were in jest or earnest.

       "Well, sir, the missus has often said to me, 'John,' she says, 'Mr. Reginald must see a sight of fine ladies in London; he must have plenty of choice.' Not but what there's several in the county, sir; we have as fine young ladies round here, sir, as any man can wish to see."

       "But not one to my taste," said Manningham, carelessly, "so I am afraid, Packard, you will not see the Grange with a new mistress yet awhile."

       "It's a pity, sir," said the elder man, shaking his head, mournfully, "it's a downright pity that that there beautiful old house should all go to rack and ruin, and those tales --"

       He pulled up abruptly.

       "What tales?" asked the young man, sharply.

       Packard still hesitated

       "Out with it, man; what is it?" cried Manningham.

       The old man glanced fearfully round the room, as if to make sure no one was listening, and then spoke in a stage whisper.

       "It's the old story, sir; they say that that is appearing again."

       "Tut, tut, Packard," cried the traveller, impatiently; "I thought you had more sense than to believe old women's tales about ghosts and haunted houses. Do you forget that we are living in the nineteenth century, and not in the days when every bit of idle gossip was taken as gospel truth?"

       "Well, sir," said Packard, slightly offended, "I don't think I am easily taken in, but it's queer, sir, it's queer. They do say It goes flitting about without any noise, and most of the servants have seen it. Why, even Mrs. Mullins, herself, have heard it crying in the west wing."

       "Mullins is a goose," responded the young man, getting up. "I see it is quite time I came home, if only to frighten this ghost away and knock the nonsense out of your heads. Get me my horse, Packard, for I must be off. It will be cold going across the heath to-night."

       A few minutes later he had mounted and was riding away into the darkness, leaving the warmth and light behind him. It was a wild night. The October gales had brought winter on their wings, and the bitter north-east wind sent the snow stinging against his face till it cut like a lash. Over the open heath, across which he was riding, there was no protection of any kind, and had not both he and his steed known their ground, the path might have been missed more than once. It was a desolate place, the favourite hunting ground of highwaymen in former days, and now not always safe from tramps and wandering spirits, who got their bread without working for it.

       Manningham smiled to himself as he wondered how his London friends would enjoy a ride which none but one born to the locality could thoroughly appreciate. Suddenly his horse shied violently, and had he been a less experienced horseman, he must have been unseated. As it was it took him a full minute to recover his equilibrium and quiet the frightened animal.

       "So ho, there; quiet, old fellow, what is it?"

       He scarcely realized himself what had happened. Something had passed him. Something gleaming white, even out of the inky blackness, had glided by, so near he might have touched it — so rapidly that the action would have been impossible.

       "Packard's ghost," he said to himself, laughing, "only the horse saw it too. Are ghosts visible to animals? If I were Balaam and his donkey, now, we might call it an angel."

       He patted his horse again, and urged him forward, but the animal was evidently disquieted. He bounded forward in short, uneven jerks. pricking his ears and turning his head from side to side with nervous uncertainty.

       Once Manningham turned in his saddle and shouted into the darkness, "Is anyone there?"

       But the howling of the blast was the only answer.

       "Folly!" he muttered, "anyone might be out on the heath, but I pity them a night like this."

       Before long he came out on the high road, and turning down a lane to the left, rode a few hundred yards, till a dark pile of building rose in view. Though the wind had nowise abated, the snowstorm had ceased, and a watery moon now and then emerged from behind the black clouds which were scudding before the gale. By its light the building looked singularly weird and gloomy. Its deep mullioned windows and dark gables beamed forth no welcome to the coming guest. Only from one corner did a fitful gleam suggest that at least the kitchen might harbour some comfort and warmth.

       "It does certainly look gloomy," said Manningham to himself; "I don't think I ever noticed it so much before."

       The feeling followed him into the grey hall, whose empty fireplace struck a chill, which neither storm nor apparition had been able to effect. It seemed as if winter had entered long ago and never gone out again. He shivered in spite of himself as he gave up his overcoat to the white-haired man-servant.

       "Not much warmth here, Bliss. Where is my father?"

       "The squire is in the library, sir."

       The man's voice agreed as little with himself as his name: it only seemed in keeping with the rest of the house, frozen and sad.

       Manningham made his way across the hall, and opened a door at the further end. Here at least there was some appearance of life. A reading lamp and a fire shone like two stars out of the darkness.

       Almost buried in a huge arm-chair sat an old man with a weary face. He did not rise to greet his son, but something like a gleam of pleasure lighted up the rugged features for a moment, and then died away, leaving it as expressionless as before. The young man came forward and took the thin, white hand in his strong brown one.

       "Well, dad," he said, "here I am," and he stooped down and kissed the lined forehead.

       Some gentler expression came over his own otherwise rather stern face as he performed the simple action. Sentiment was not at all in Reginald Manningham's line; but a woman might have envied the tenderness which was kept for his father alone.

       He talked on cheerily for awhile, till Bliss appeared with a tray of refreshments to which he did the full justice of a young man and a healthy appetite. The squire watched him, meanwhile, from under his shaggy eyebrows, as if half envious of the energy which could make such short work of cold beef with such evident enjoyment. With the termination of the repast, however, his interest seemed to die out, as if even that unwonted effort had been too much for the tired brain. He leant back again wearily in his chair, and stretched out his hands to the blaze, which Manningham's vigorous assault on the logs had increased to double its usual size. The young man also drew up his chair and lighted his pipe; then, from the other side of the hearth, watched his father closely. There was no doubt about it. The squire was looking more grey and pinched and old than ever. He had been so gradually falling into silence and retirement that no perceptible difference was noticeable on his son's occasional visits. But to-night there was certainly a change. The pale face was paler, the lines deeper, the whole man more feeble. Some element had been at work since his last visit. What was it?

       "I stopped at the 'Lion' on my way, dad," he said, trying to find a topic of conversation. "Mrs. Packard looked very flourishing, and so did he. They enquired after you."

       "What did they tell you about me? — about the house?"

       Manningham returned his look with some surprise.

       "Why —–" he began.

       "Go on," said the elder man, eagerly, as his son hesitated. "Did you hear any tales? Did they tell you about It?"

       Manningham rose in real vexation, and stood on the hearth, with his back to the fire.

       "Father," he exclaimed," you do not mean to say you have been listening to any of those old women's stories, and letting them worry you?"

       The old man looked up almost pleadingly at the indignant young face above him. His voice sank almost to a whisper.

       "It is true, Rex, it is all true — I feel it — I know it. She said it would come and it has. I turned her out, and she has come back to haunt me. All these years — all these years; and my sin has found me out — found me out."

       He repeated the words over and over again as if it were a lesson he had learned by heart. There was something infinitely pathetic in the thin hands wringing themselves together.

       A sudden pity came into the young man's face. He checked a gesture of impatience, and stooping down laid his hand affectionately on his father's shoulder.

       "Look here, dad," he said, gently, "why do you let this trouble you? It was years ago, as you say; and, after all, it was not entirely your fault. Try and forget it all. I am here now to take care of you."

       The squire looked up piteously into his face.

       "I wish I could forget," he said. "He was my oldest friend, and he left his daughter to me. A 'sacred charge,' he called it. And the young ones must marry; they all do it. And he was well enough, only poor." He paused a moment; then went on in the same monotonous tone, "It all comes back to me, over and over again. On winter nights when the wind is howling I think of her in the cold, in the cold. And now she is back somewhere in the house, creeping about, filling the rooms with her presence as she did in the old days. It has all come true. Be sure your sin will find you out — be sure your sin will find you out."

       Long into the night Reginald sat talking, arguing, convincing, before he succeeded in bringing his father into a calmer, if not happier, frame of mind.

       For himself, he went to bed in a state of irritation which the morning's light did not wholly dissipate.

       "Look here, Mullins," he said, invading the housekeeper's room much to that functionary's secret delight, "what have you been doing to let the squire work himself up into this state? I never saw him look so ill before. And all because of some ridiculous fancy about ghosts which everyone has got hold of. Bah! I never heard such nonsense!"

       Mrs. Mullins closed her lips tightly, and smoothed out her black silk apron with her plump hands, before answering. She had been Reginald's devoted slave since the days when she waged fierce warfare with his nurse on the subject of how many jam tarts a boy may safely eat without injury to his person. But now her dignity must be maintained.

       "Master Reginald," she began solemnly, "It's no nonsense to us as has lived with It one month — just one month to-day. And there's strange things happened in this house, sir; it may be years ago, and I don't want to bring up what's dead and gone, for I always says 'let bygones be bygones'; but you can't wonder at the squire thinking of that there blessed young lady, and I shouldn't like to say if it be her spirit or not, for we do hear of spirits coming back, even when they've been decently buried too; not that we know nothing about poor Miss Priscilla —–"

       Here the application of her handkerchief to her eyes checked the voluminous flow of words, and enabled Reginald to break in.

       "This is all nonsense, you know, Mullins," he said impatiently, "spirits do not walk about like that. Some of the maids have been skylarking and frightened you all. But it will have to be stopped now; it has gone too far, making my father ill."

       Mrs. Mullins bristled with offended dignity.

       "Begging your pardon, sir," she said, relinquishing her handkerchief, "my maids know better than to take such liberties as that; and it is no fancy on our part. There is something in this house, creepin' about and doing odd things. Why, there's one of the blankets gone off the bed in the b:st spare room, and there are things disappearing out of the larder every week." She paused triumphantly to see the effect of this last statement.

       Reginald burst into a loud laugh.

       "Why, Mullins," he cried, "you convict yourself out of your own mouth. Who ever heard of a ghost wanting blankets and bread and meat? Depend upon it, one of the maids has got a lover, and keeps him well supplied with necessaries. You had better look to the household and find out the culprit."

       Mrs. Mullins closed her lips with a snap.

       "You may laugh, sir, but servants don't go gliding about in long white dresses —–"

       "Nightgowns," muttered Reginald under his moustache.

       "And just fancy," continued the housekeeper, not heeding the interruption, and waxing irate as her imagination pictured the scene; "just fancy Mary Anne gliding, when she goes lumping across the kitchen so that half the parish might hear! Why, me and Bliss couldn't have mistaken her." She ended with almost a snort of disdain.

       Reginald concealed his amusement at the elephantine performances of the unlucky handmaiden, and made his escape, saying, "Well, Mullins, you'll find it's nothing after all, and I don't want to hear any more about it."

       But it was one thing to dismiss the subject thus carelessly, and quite another to see his wishes carried into execution. He was destined to hear a good deal more about it l::efore the week was out.

       In spite of his strenuous efforts to amuse and rouse his father, it was evident that the old man was weighed down by some invisible depression which he seemed unable to shake off. There was an air of mystery about the house. The servants kept the letter of the law in not mentioning the forbidden subject, but they hastened about with quickened step and scared faces, directly the twilight shadows made the long passages dark.

       Mrs. Mullins announced one morning that all the younger ones had given warning.

       "A good thing too," was Reginald's rejoinder.

       He was getting very angry.

       That some undefined power was at work in the house became apparent to him, but he could not lay his hand upon it. This piqued his vanity, for he rather prided himself on his detective powers. He still kept to his theory of the practical joking of the maids, which was strengthened by a slight experience of his own, which he did not consider necessary to retail to anyone.

       Running upstairs, one evening, in the dark, for a book he had forgotten, he had a distinct sensation of someone passing him in the bend of the stairs. It was but a momentary feeling, gone almost as soon as created; but the impression remained.

       "Who is there?" he said sharply; but nothing answered. The faintest possible sound — it might have been a sigh, or the rustle of a woman's gown seemed borne to him on the air. He groped about in the dark, but only came in contact with the wall; bruised his knuckles, and went upstairs anathematizing the household in general, and the redoubtable Mary Anne in particular.

       Every day his irritation increased. It aggravated him to see the squire so palpably affected by the idle tales he was trying to combat, instead of rising above them and thus giving the lie to their originators. To have instituted a thorough investigation of the house, and thus proved to the servants the absurdity of their fears, would, in his eyes, have been pandering to their credulity. He preferred to treat it with scornful unbelief, and not yield an inch. But circumstances were too strong for him.

       He had been away for a whole day, and only returned late one evening, tired with a long ride and much business. The weather still continued rough and stormy; and he sought the refuge of the library without waiting to make any change in his dress.

       "You will forgive a little mud, dad," he said, "but I am just tired out."

       They sat and talked of the day's events; the old man growing almost cheerful as he listened to the gossip of the outer world. Suddenly the expression of his face changed. It became watchful, listening. His hands nervously clasped the arms of his chair. His eyes grew strained, eager. Following their direction, Manningham glanced towards the door. There was not the slightest doubt that it was slowly opening. In the moment's breathless hush, it gave an almost imperceptible creak. There was a glimmer of white. Manningham rose with an angry exclamation. But quick as he was the apparition had vanished. The door closed swiftly and noiselessly, and ere he could open it again the hall was empty. Not, however, before his ears, sharpened by anxiety, had caught the sound of another door closing, not quite so softly, perhaps, as was intended. It was a heavy door at the other end of the hall, leading to a part of the house which had not been used for years.

       "I'll have you now," he muttered under his breath.

       Quick as lightning he crossed the empty space, and opened, not that door, but the red baize one leading to the offices, determined to forestall whoever might be returning, by first discovering whose place should be vacant.

       "What tomfoolery is this?" he cried, bursting in on the astonished servants' hall, where the maids sat sewing round the table, while Mrs. Mullins knitted in a capacious armchair on one side of the fire, and Bliss nodded in its counterpart on the other. These latter had fallen into the habit of joining the servants' hall in the evening, probably on the principle of safety in numbers, and preferring company to the solitary dignity of the housekeeper's room.

       "Who is missing?" demanded Manningham finding no answer but open-mouthed surprise to his first question.

       "No one, sir," answered Mrs. Mullins promptly, a light dawning upon her as to this unexpected visit.

       "Who came and opened the library door?" reiterated Reginald.

       A kind of thrill passed through the assembled party. Manningham felt it to his finger tips, and it goaded him into action. He was dimly conscious that Mrs. Mullins was whispering to Bliss, in mysterious triumph, "He has seen it;" that Mary Anne was regarding him with saucer-eyed innocence before he made his hasty decision.

       "Come," he said angrily, "come, everyone of you with me. I will put a stop once and for all to this nonsense."

       He snatched up a hand candlestick from the table, and led the way into the outer hall, the servants following him in frightened groups, awed by his unusual sternness. Bliss armed himself further with a lamp, and Mrs. Mullins, on second thoughts, returned to take the poker. She was in time to catch up the party as they paused at the door leading into the west wing.

       Bliss exchanged glances with her.

       "That's the way It always goes," he whispered.

       Mrs. Mullins nodded.

       "Then if you knew where it went, why did you not follow it?" said Reginald contemptuously turning round, having caught the whisper.

       "Sir," said the housekeeper with dignity, "me and Bliss did investigate one day. That is to say" — correcting herself with truthful exactness — "as far as the hall; but it's ill meddling with spirits when you don't know what they be; and when you hear them a-cryin' in —–"

       "Pshaw!" said Manningham angrily, "that is quite enough of that nonsense; come along."

       The old hall into which they now entered had once been very beautiful. The carved oak pillars and panelling remained intact, but thickly coated with dust. The large, open hearth, with quaintly wrought iron dogs, seemed to plead for the yule logs they had not held for many years. No one had drawn the curtains over the high arched windows. It was like entering the house of the dead. A chill struck through each one, but Reginald was inexorable.

       He glanced back to see that no one was lagging, and then strode across the hall, and up the broad, low, staircase, which led to a gallery running round three sides of the hall. Here were the principal bedrooms of the house, long since unused. He flung open two or three of the doors, and pulled aside curtains and tapestry in angry haste to prove that nothing lay concealed behind.

       At the west end of the gallery a smaller, heavier door disclosed a winding turret stair leading to a tower terminating that side of the house. Mrs. Mullins gave a sigh of relief when it was reached.

       "It's the turret room," she said," where It sobbed."

       Reginald paid no heed to the exclamation.

       "Stay here," he said sternly, "all of you, while I go up; there is. not room for everyone."

       There was a moment's breathless silence as he disappeared into the darkness. Was it fancy, or did their strained ears catch the faint sound of sobbing, coming to them as from afar off through the thickness of the old walls?

       They made a striking picture as they waited, motionless, in the gallery, for the footsteps which came back to them, down, down, nearer, nearer.

       The maids huddled together in a frightened group: Bliss holding the lamp high over his head and peering forward to catch the first glimpse of what might come; Mrs. Mullins stout and important, grasping her poker firmly. Further back, the old squire who, unnoticed, had joined the party, leaned on his gold-headed cane and gazed towards the opening with eyes of strained expectancy.

       It seemed ages before Reginald re-appeared, a striking figure himself, with cobwebs and whitewash added to his already splashed riding-coat: but the watchers had no eyes for him. They saw nothing save what he was leading by the hand and presented to their view. She was a little creature with a pale childish face, a long white gown fell gracefully round her slight figure. Her fair hair, which had escaped from its fastening, fell down in waves to her waist, and covered her like a mantle. Her eyes, blue as forget-me-nots, flashed back indignantly at them all from beneath the tear-spangled lashes.

       "So!" cried Manningham, scornfully, "a nice ghost!"

       The girl looked him all over, beginning at his feet and travelling upwards critically.

       "And you are Rex," she said. "I wanted to see you. Not a bit good-looking, but rather a nice ugly face."

       The young man flushed under her scrutiny, and the criticism stung him to retort; but before he could utter a word, a cry from the squire made them start round.

       The old man had sunk back against the wall, his eyes dilating, his face twitching convulsively.

       "Priscilla!" he moaned through his parched lips.

       "No," said the clear, ringing tones, "not Priscilla, but Priscilla's child — Forget-me-not."

       There was a gasp from the little circle.

       Manningham recovered his equilibrium.

       "Are you not ashamed of yourself?" he said roughly, giving her hand a little shake as if she were a naughty child. "Are you not ashamed of yourself frightening an old man like that?"

       "I did not mean to hurt him," she said.

       She disengaged her hand, and running across the gallery with light step, knelt down beside the old man.

       "Don't he frightened," she whispered, soothingly, and winding her arms about his neck, pressed her young lips on his forehead.

       But the squire seemed unable to comprehend. He gazed round with a vacant stare, which brought Reginald to his side in a moment.

       "I will trouble you to leave my father to me," he said sternly. "Perhaps, now that you have completed your work, you will go away and not do any more mischief."

       The girl rose and threw back her head proudly.

       "I have not the slightest intention of going away," she said. "Mrs. Mullins will show me my room."

       "Bless my heart!" exclaimed the housekeeper, dropping the poker in her astonishment, "the idea of the ghost knowing my name."

       "Yes," said the ghost, calmly, "and I am very tired. I should like to sleep in the south bedroom with the rosebud chintz."

       Mrs. Mullins conducted her strange visitor thither with the meekness of a lamb. She also stayed with her till midnight. What transpired between them, who shall tell? But the housemaid declared that as she passed the door the ghost was down on the hearthrug, her pretty head on the housekeeper's lap, her little white hands doing their best to meet round the portly waist.

       She appeared for breakfast in the library next morning, and poured out the tea as if she had known the ways of the house for years.

       The old squire accepted the situation as a matter of course. He still looked pale and worn, but his depression had gone. His restlessness now only took the form of watching Forget-me-not's every movement. He seemed to drink in each word from her lips.

       Reginald found remonstrance useless. To him her manner was calmly defiant; though to his father she shewed the prettiest deference. It was irritating to him to watch her wandering round the room straightening a book here, or an ornament there, as if the place belonged to her.

       "It will take me a long time to know all these," she said, with slender finger indicating the bookcase.

       "If convenient to my father," suggested Reginald stiffly.

       "I have come to stay," she answered calmly: then with quick change of tone, "You don't want me to go, dad?"

       "No, child, no," said the squire reaching out his trembling hand. And holding it she answered, "I promised mother I would come."

       "There are two ways of entering a house," began Reginald hotly, stung by her assurance and his father's acquiescence.

       "Yes?" she queried archly, with uplifted brows. "But you see I wanted to know you all first, and I could not tell how you might receive me."

       "You scarcely chose the wisest way," was Reginald's retort.

       "My dear," interrupted the squire with an appealing look at his son, "you would have been welcome. Priscilla's child would always have met with open arms, without hiding or —–"

       "Or giving us credit for inhospitality," finished Reginald sardonically. "Fressingfield has not usually that reputation."

       For the first time the girl flashed into life. There was no doubt about the ghost's genuine flesh and blood now. The warm colour mounted to her brow; she clasped her little hands passionately together.

       "What could I expect?" she cried. "What could I expect? You turned my mother from the door, my little gentle mother, because she loved my father and he was poor." Her voice rang out the words with scorn. "His blood was good, as blue and old as your own; but, forsooth, she must marry the rich young lord, and say good-bye to her lover. But she chose to go with him, and work with him, and suffer with him —–"

       "Silence girl," interrupted Reginald harshly, "have you no mercy that you can cause such pain?" He pointed to his father, leaning back in his chair, his withered hands covering his face, shaking helplessly with the tears which old men weep.

       "It is your fault," she answered passionately, "your fault that I mentioned it at all. Have we not suffered too, all these years; suffered and worked, while you have borne nothing?"

       "Not nothing," moaned the squire, catching the last word; "it has been a sore, sore burden, child."

       She knelt down and twined her arms round him as she had done the previous night.

       "Dad," she said softly, "never think of it again. Mother forgave it years ago. She told me to come and tell you. Yes," as his eyes asked the unspoken question, "she is dead. Father died five years ago, and mother and I worked on at the farm. But, somehow, I don't think she could live without father, and — she told me to come here."

       The girl's voice became a little husky, ending in almost a whisper.

       Reginald silently left the room. The squire's hands moved gently down and rested on Forget-me-not's head.

       It was wonderful what life she brought into the house during the next few days. Everything was a novelty to her, and she confessed her ignorance with charming naïvete.

       "I always wanted to see an English country house, because I have only lived on the farm."

       "This is what you call an ancestral hall, is it not?" she enquired one day, standing before the empty hearth. "There ought to be blazing yule logs here, and — Mrs. Mullins — where is the red cloth for the staircase?"

       "Bless my heart!" exclaimed the housekeeper, whose vocabulary was somewhat limited, "Fancy you knowing about that, Miss!"

       "Mother told me," returned Forget-me-not, calmly.

       Her keen glance took one comprehensive sweep round, then she tripped off to the squire in the library.

       "Dad," she said in her coaxing tones, "dad, mother said that the old hall was the prettiest place in England, and that the Christmas Days there, were jollier than any one else's. But it is all dirty and ugly now."

       "We have never had one 'jolly' Christmas since Priscilla went away," said the old man dreamily.

       "No, but now" — coming round with clasped, pleading hands — "may we not have another? A real old-fashioned Christmas, with everybody happy."

       "Just like Priscilla," he muttered, "just like Priscilla."

       His thoughts wandered off in a hazy retrospect of bye-gone years, and Forget-me-not ventured a gentle reminder.

       "Well, dad?"

       He started.

       "I beg your pardon, child. Yes, do as you like; do as your mother did."

       And she took full advantage of the permission. Workmen were called in, and repairs put into speedy execution. Mrs. Mullins had no longer any cause to complain that the servants ate their heads off and did nothing. The maids withdrew their notice, and begged to be allowed to stay. There was plenty for them to do. Such an amount of scrubbing and dusting, polishing and cleaning, had not been seen in the house for years.

       Reginald, on one of his periodical visits — more frequent of late — "to see that girl was not bothering his father," found the long-closed rooms bright with fire, and flowers, and visitors. For the neighbourhood had heard strange tales and flocked to the Grange. They came curious and went away charmed. Forget-me-not received them with old-world dignity, by no means alarmed at numbers or titles.

       "They were my mother's friends," she said, "and they will be mine too."

       For the first time in his life Reginald found himself at a disadvantage.

       He was taken to see the improvements and alterations by this imperious little chatelaine without his opinion being either consulted or required.

       "You will be able to alter it all again, some day, if you don't like it," she told him frankly; "but at present the property is dad's, and I can do as I like."

       It was impossible to be angry with her, though he tried an argument on one point.

       "Why do you take my name for my father?"

       She looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh, 'dad'?" she said. "Mother did, and I shall."

       There was nothing more to be said. Her mind once made up was not easily altered.

       She elected to wear her mother's gowns, which she found in the old presses upstairs. As fashions had veered round to 1 hose of thirty years ago, these did not look so much out of date as might Le imagined. She borrowed the stable pony, and galloped over the heath to visit the worthy Packards, whose hearts she took by storm; laughing at their fears for her safety.

       "In Australia I always rode alone, over far wilder country than that."

       "But how did you know your way?" asked Reginald, to whom she was relating her admiration of the old inn.

       She gave him an arch, quizzical look.

       "Suppose I had been there before?" she queried.

       "Hum," muttered Reginald to himself, "it seems to me that my theory about Balaam may not have been altogether wrong."

       She did not condescend to enlighten him much as to her period of hiding; but to the squire she was childishly frank.

       The idea had occurred to her, partly from knowing that the tower had the reputation of being haunted; partly from her mother's wanderings in her last illness, when she went over all the scenes of her rupture with the squire, pleading for her lover, and telling the old man how his harshness would haunt him all his life.

       "And so I thought I would come and sec what it was like," she finished. "Of course I knew my way about, because mother always talked of her home, and she often drew pictures of the house for me. But it was horribly cold up there, and I could only go out in the dark to get food. It was great fun sometimes, but I was frightened the day Mullins and Bliss poked about in the hall. I scratched on the wall, and moaned to scare them. You should have seen their faces!" She broke off in an irrepressible ripple of laughter.

       The early days of December brought Reginald home altogether. He insisted upon being there at least to look on, if he was not permitted to help; for this the young autocrat refused to allow except under her direct supervision.

       "You have had all these years to do things, and you have done nothing, now it is my turn," she told him.

       So he submitted to be ordered about, to be snubbed, to follow at her heels like a dog, with a meekness worthy of imitation.

       And the preparations went on.

       Forget-me-not stood and surveyed her handiwork with shining eyes on Christmas Eve.

       The old hall was filled with light, and laughter, and merry voices. On the hearth yule logs were crackling merrily; on the wall red holly berries gleamed against the dark oak. The old banners hung over the knights in armour; the crimson cloth made a warm spot of colour on the staircase. Under the mistletoe Bliss was solemnly leading Mistress Packard "up the middle and down again," while mine host performed the same office for Mrs. Mullins. The redoubtable Mary Anne, heavy-footed, but light-hearted, performed a pas seul to her own satisfaction and the amusement of the coachman's children, in one corner; while the silver-haired rector beamed on them all from the inglenook, where he had never more expected to sit.

       "Do you feel as if you had forgiven us now?" Reginald's voice asked with a strange quiver in it, behind Forget-me-not.

       Her blue eyes, moist with tears, answered him.

       They stayed long in the shadows under the staircase, and their talk was all in whispering tones. That is why the world will never know what they said to each other.

       The squire found them there when he came to look for "my daughter."

       "She will soon be that in earnest," said Rex, "because I am going to marry the ghost."

(THE END)