forward with outstretched hands, for it was horribly dark. Presently she touched the rough stone wall of some building and stopped and listened. Not a sound but the wild roar of the waves below the cliffs and the gradual lulling of the wind. She groped along the wall, till her hands fell a little lower, to a different surface. It was a short wooden door. She pushed against it, gently, but it did not yield. She felt it across and up and down. There was no latch and she could find no keyhole. Again she pushed, this time with all her strength. Jerking suddenly, the door opened inwards, and Ellenor, leaning against it, fell forward over the high threshold into pitch darkness. She felt a blinding blow and a sickening pain, and then she lost consciousness.

When she came to herself she was first aware of a heavily beamed cobwebbed roof, of a dim lantern beside her, of the stifling nearness of kegs and bales and boxes, and then of a very familiar figure kneeling beside her on one knee.

The man's face that peered into hers was handsome in a heavy undeveloped way. Eyes as grey as hers and as sombre scowled from underneath dark brows and a dark thatch of hair. His sullen mouth, set in a hard angry line, was the finest feature of a clean-shaven face.

"You little fool!" he half whispered, "what on earth, or in hell, has made you come meddling here, I'd like to know! I've nearly killed you!"

With his coarse pocket handkerchief he mopped up the blood that was flowing from a cut on her head.

"How did you nearly kill me?" she asked, "what harm have I done?"

"You've come sneaking in here, and in this darkness, and I hit you when you banged open the door. It seems you were falling over the doorstep. You're pretty pale, my girl, but I believe I know your face. Aren't you from Les Casquets?"

"I'm Ellenor Cartier, yes. And you—you're Monsieur Le Mierre, from Orvillière."

He scowled and looked for a minute as if he meditated another blow—then he swore roundly in the Norman-French that he and all the islanders spoke.

"How the devil did you know me in this darkness! You're a witch, it seems, and it isn't the first time I've thought it. You are not a beauty, my girl. But come, tell me, how did you recognize me?"

"I've seen you to church, to St. Pierre du Bois, but you were all dressed up then; and I've seen you driving to the market of a Saturday morning sometimes."

He laughed and bent a little closer. Her eyes were like stars as they were lifted to his face. And she did not appear to fear him in the very least.

"Well, it's a joke, isn't it, the difference between Dominic Le Mierre of a Sunday and Dominic Le Mierre in this place, my clothes all wet with sea-water. And now, tell me, witch, why do you think I'm here, in the Haunted House?"

"I couldn't say, I'm sure."

He was silent, staring hard into the candid, fearless eyes; then impulsively he cried,

"I believe I can trust you! But, I warn you, if you let out why I'm here, I'll kill you."

"You can trust me. I'd be killed before I'd let out."

A soft shadow darkened the clearness of her eyes: her long eyelashes fell before his puzzled stare.

"But why, bah! it appears you're not afraid of me, then! Very well. I'll tell you. It is the best way out of the difficulty. But sit up against this barrel, and drink a little brandy. I've stopped the bleeding in your head with a black enough cobweb."

Ellenor tried to raise herself up, but loss of blood had made her giddy, and Dominic put his arm round her and steadied her roughly, but not unkindly. Her dark head rested a second against his blue jerseyed shoulder, and once more she lifted her eyes to his. With brusque and evidently totally unpremeditated passion he kissed her red lips.

"There! didn't I say you are a witch! I could laugh at myself for this—I, Le Mierre, of one of the oldest families of St. Pierre du Bois to be kissing a girl like you, a girl who carries fish to market, tramp, tramp, all the way in the rain or in the sun! And, moreover, I, Le Mierre, oh, so respectable and fine of a Sunday, pulling a long face in my pew, and yet, behold, here I am a smuggler, keeping guard over brandy and lace and silks! And why the devil did I kiss you, for it isn't that you are a pretty girl or enticing, eh?"

The girl trembled and turned away her head.

"Perhaps I am not pretty, but you've kissed me for all that, and better still, you've told me your secret. I think it's a mean thing to be a smuggler: but I'd die before I'd tell anyone you was a smuggler. That I promise you!"

"Good! And why are you ready to promise me so quick? I'm inclined to be afraid you'll let out, after all. I've been a fool to trust you."

He grasped her arm roughly and knitting his brows was buried in thought again. But she broke in on his silence, with blazing eyes of such beauty that he understood why he had kissed her.

"Not a bit of it, Monsieur Le Mierre! A man is not a fool to trust a girl who ... likes ... him!"

"But, that's all very well! How is it you like me? You've never spoken to me before."

"I've seen you to church; and one can like people without speaking to them."

He laughed. "Perhaps you can, but I can't! Well, the job's done now, so I suppose I'll have to trust you. Next time you see me to church, you won't believe it's me you've really seen here. But you must be off—or else the other chaps will catch you. Look here, I'm sorry I've made your head bleed! and you'll have to tell a pack of lies to explain why there's a cut under your hair. Are you afraid to tell lies, eh?"

"Not to keep you safe."

"Well, you're no coward I must say. And now, stop a bit, how much money do you expect me to give you to keep a still tongue in your head?"

"Money! not a double!"

"Bah, I can't believe it, and if ever you need it to help your father and mother, you come to me. But quick, you must go, it seems to me I hear somebody coming. There, you're over the step, run, quick, it is the men, coming up the cliff!"

When she had disappeared into the darkness, Le Mierre muttered to himself, "I'm ensorcelai, that's certain, for I've never found out what brought the girl here at all!"

CHAPTER II.

t was winter, always a time for enjoyment in the days of old Guernsey, when evening after evening, people met together at the Veilles, to knit and sing and to tell stories of witchcraft and weird tales of the sea.

Colomberie Farm was glowing with warmth and light, and swarming with company on the evening of the twenty-first of December, for it was the special festival of longue veille. The spotless wooden table in the middle of the sanded floor was piled high with woollen goods of every kind, which had been knitted by men and women at former veilles. The dark blue of "jerseys" and "guernseys" were an effective background for stacks of white woollen stockings and scarlet caps.

"My good," said Mrs. Cartier, of Les Casquets Cottage, "there's never yet bin so many things for the Christmas Eve market! It's that we must