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“What nonsense it all is!” said Millie aloud. “But I’m afraid Charlie is silly enough to believe it.”

As she spoke her eye fell on a Canadian canoe, which lay at the foot of the steps. She recognized it as Charlie Merceron’s, and, knowing that approach to the temple from the other side was to be gained only by a difficult path through a tangled wood, and that the canoe usually lay under a little shed a few yards from where she stood, she concluded that Charlie was in the temple. There was nothing surprising in that: it was a favorite haunt of his. She raised her voice; and called to him. At first no answer came, and she repeated:

“Charlie! Charlie!”

After a moment of waiting a head was thrust out of a window in the side of the temple–a head in a straw hat.

“Hullo!” said Charlie; Merceron in tones of startled surprise. Then, seeing the visitor, he added: “Oh, it’s you, Millie! How did you know I was here?”

“By the canoe, of course.”

“Hang the canoe!” muttered Charlie, and his head disappeared. A second later he came out of the doorway and down the steps. Standing on the lowest, he shouted–the Pool was about sixty feet across–“What do you want?”

“How rude you are!” shouted Miss Bushell in reply.

Charlie got into the canoe and began to paddle across. He had just reached the other side, when Millie screamed:

“Look, look, Charlie!” she cried. “The temple!”

“What?”

“I–I saw something white at the window.”

Charlie got out of the canoe; hastily.

“What?” he asked again, walking up to Miss Bushell.

“I declare I saw something white at the window. Oh, Charlie! But it’s all—-“

“Bosh? Of course it is. There’s nothing in the temple.”

“Well, I thought–I wonder you like to be there.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

The mysterious appearance not being repeated, Millie’s courage returned.

“I thought you believed in the ghost,” she said, smiling.

“So I do, but I don’t mind it.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“Supposing I haven’t? That doesn’t prove it’s not true.”

“But you’re often here at the time?”

“Never,” answered Charlie with emphasis. “I always go away before the time.”

“Then you’d better come now. Put the canoe to bed and walk with me.”

Charlie Merceron thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled at his companion. He was tall also, and just able to look down on her.

“No,” he said, “I’m not going yet.”

“How rude–oh, there it is again, Charlie! I saw it! I’m–I’m frightened,” and her healthy color paled a trifle, as she laid a hand on Charlie’s arm.

“I tell you what,” observed Charlie. “If you have fancies of this kind you’d better not come here any more–not in the evening, at all events. You know people who think they’re going to see things always do see ’em.”

“My heart is positively beating,” said Miss Bushell. “I–I don’t quite like walking back alone.”

“I’ll see you as far as the road,” Charlie conceded, and with remarkable promptitude he led the way, turning his head over his shoulder to remark:

“Really, if you’re so nervous, you oughtn’t to come here.”

“I never will again–not alone, I mean.”

Charlie had breasted the hill with such goodwill that they were already at the road.

“And you’re really going back?” she asked.

“Oh, just for a few minutes. I left my book in the temple–I was reading there. She’s not due for half an hour yet, you know.”

“What–what happens if you see her?”

“Oh, you die,” answered Charlie. “Goodnight;” and with a smile and a nod he ran down the hill towards the Pool.

Miss Bushell, cavalierly deserted, made her way home at something more than her usual rate of speed. She had never believed in that nonsense, but there was certainly something white at that window–something white that moved. Under the circumstances, Charlie really might have seen her home, she thought, for the wood-fringed road was gloomy, and dusk coming on apace. Besides, where was the hardship in being her escort?

Doubtless none, Charlie would have answered, unless a man happened to have other fish to fry. The pace at which the canoe crossed the Pool and brought up at its old moorings witnessed that he had no leisure to spend on Miss Bushell. Leaping out, he ran up the stops into the temple, crying in a loud whisper: