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The bay horse leaped a flowerbed. They were almost to the drive, when the girl uttered a panic-stricken cry.

The captain wheeled his horse violently, and upon his return journey went straight through a flowerbed.

The girl had clasped her hands. She beseeched him wildly with her eyes.”Oh, please, don’t believe it! I never walk to the old oak tree. Indeed I don’t! I never—never—never walk there.”

The bridle drooped on the bay charger’s neck. The captain’s figure seemed limp. With an expression of profound dejection and gloom he stared off at where the leaden sky met the dark green line of the woods. The long-impending rain began to fall with a mournful patter, drop and drop. There was a silence.

At last a low voice said, “Well—I might—sometimes I might—perhaps—but only once in a great while—I might walk to the old tree—in the afternoons.”