called rude, she lets him find a seat on the low bough of one of the ash-trees, well out of reach of the sunshine.

He does not offer to sit down beside her, though there is plenty of room.

With his shoulder against a tree and his hat well pulled over his eyes he stands and talks in his easy, half-grave, half-mocking way, that, in spite of herself, the girl finds charming.

He does not appear to be in the least anxious to interest or amuse her; yet he does both. Before long she is laughing as she has not laughed for weeks—a pretty color has come into her cheeks, her eyes are sparkling. No wonder the man looking at her feels his heart thrill!

If ever he thought that he could go away and leave this willful Irish girl, whose very willfulness has caught and chained him, he knows now that the thought was a vain one.

She is the one woman in the world for him, her love the one thing needful to crown his life. Other women may be fairer, other women may be ready to give him love where this girl gives him but a mocking tolerance; but no other woman can ever be to him what she is.

Of love and lovers there is no thought in Honor's head this sunny afternoon. She thinks her cousin has improved, that he has even grown quite tolerable, and there it ends, so far as she is concerned.

On their way back to the house they pass Launce and Mrs. Dundas walking very close together, and talking seriously.

Honor looks at her coldly. She does not like the woman. Her bold eyes, her lithe figure, in its French-cut gown, the very grace and chic that have made Kate Dundas the belle of the county jar upon Honor.

"I am very sorry Launce has gone so far in that quarter," her companion says, when they are well out of ear-shot. "These fascinating women are always more or less dangerous."

"Oh, Launce can take care of himself!"

"I doubt it," Brian answered dryly.

"Oh, but he can!" Honor persists, with a laugh. "We all can, for that matter; indeed, and it's my opinion there is not a susceptible heart in the whole family."

"Probably not. I don't believe in susceptible hearts myself."

A faint smile stirs her lips as she listens. It was not true, then, that passionate declaration that has rung in her ears since she first heard it:

"Heavens, child, how I love you!"

"How would it have been with me now if I had believed him?" she asks herself. She can quite believe that the loss of this man's love—after once believing in it—might prove a source of very keen regret to any girl; but fortunately she had never believed in it; and now it could never be anything—true or false, faithful or unfaithful—since she has given her plighted word to Power Magill.

"I wish Launce would go back to Dublin," Brian says after a pause. "He is only getting himself and other people into mischief down here. Can't the pater see that?"

"My father can see no fault in Launce—neither can I, for that matter.
I really don't see what harm the poor fellow is doing."

"He is doing harm, Honor—take my word for it! He would be best away."

"We do not think so," she says coldly; and there the matter ends.

It is getting dark as the little party—Honor, her two brothers, and young Jack Delorme—turn in at the gates of Donaghmore. They have been talking and laughing merrily; Honor is in good spirits to-night, or pretends to be; but as they pass inside the gate a silence falls upon them.

Launce is walking on the grass, well under the trees, Jack Delorme in the very middle of the gravel path, swinging a light stick, while Honor and Horace are a little in advance. As they reach the ruins Jack stops.

"I wonder if the old abbot is above ground to-night, Launce," he says.
"It would be only polite of us to pay him a visit if he is."

As the mocking words pass his lips, Honor turns to gaze at the gray pile, which looks very rugged in the dusk. She stops instantly.

Is she dreaming, she asks herself with a gasp of surprise, or is that a shape moving slowly between her and the doorless space that leads into the old quadrangle?

Horace sees it at the same instant; and the solo he is whistling—"My Queen"—with variations more or less ear-piercing, not to say distracting, dies away on his lips. He is little better than a lad, and his scorn of the supernatural is not by any means real.

"Oh, Honor," he exclaims, drawing close to her, "what can it be? Don't you see something over there?"

"It is a shadow of some branch, dear; it can be nothing else! Wait and see if the others notice it."

"Honor, I dare not stay!" the boy says nervously. "It is cowardly of me, I know, but there is a terror on me, and I—oh, what is that?"

A sudden shriek—so long, so shrill, so blood-chilling that the hearers stand aghast—breaks out upon the still air. A second later it is followed by an imprecation and a rapid rush of feet, as Launce and Jack Delorme spring, with one impulse, toward the ruins.

Honor neither stirs nor cries out. She holds her brother's hand tightly in both her own, and prays in an incoherent fashion; and all the time a strange unreal feeling is creeping over her.

"Can these things be?" she is asking herself. "Are spirits allowed to come back and torture the living?"—for this fear is the keenest torture her vigorous young life has ever known.

It is all over in a few minutes, though it seems to her that they have been standing there a long time, and then her brother and Jack Delorme come up to them.

"By George, we nearly had the fellow!" Launce says panting. "Never saw a nearer shave than he had in my life! I could have sworn he was within reach of my fist; yet when I struck out, the brute was gone!"

He is flushed, excited, angry; Jack is cooler and graver. His face, as he bares his head to the light breeze, looks pale.

Honor divines instinctively that he, like herself, has seen something supernatural in this apparition.

But Launce scoffs at any such idea.

"It is some blackguard," he says scornfully, "got up on purpose to scare folks! He was within an ace of getting his skull broken for his pains."

Is it their overwrought fancy, or does a low mocking laugh float back to them?

Honor shivers.

"Let us get into the house," she says. "I feel as if I could not breathe out here; and don't let us talk any more about it, please!"

But Launce cannot hold his tongue; he does nothing but scoff at their credulity, and when they reach the house the first thing he does is to go straight to the dining-room and tell the whole story to his father.

The old man looks grave as he listens; it even seems to Honor if a little of the ruddy color dies out of his face.

"Best let these things alone, my boy," he says at last.

In his own young days such things as warnings were neither scoffed at nor disbelieved in.

"Let us keep our powder and shot for men of bone and muscle like ourselves, Launce, and not waste them on shadows."

If he had said, "Let us ask the old abbot up to supper, and treat him to a jorum of whiskey-punch," Launce could not have looked more surprised.

"Well," he says in a tone if disgust, "I did think you had more sense, father, than to believe in a fellow walking about some hundred and fifty years after his