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“What be the matter, Miss Dorothy?”

“Is that you, Robert?” I said. “Come here. Look! Do you see?”

“See what?” he said.

“Don’t you see anything?” I said. “No light? Nothing?”

“Nothin’ whatever,” said Robert, decidedly; “it be as dark as pitch.”

I stood silent, gazing at the apparition, which, having reached the gate, was slowly re-advancing. If it were fancy, why did it not vanish? I rubbed my eyes, but it was there still. Robert interrupted me, solemnly–

“Miss Dorothy, do you see anything?”

“Robert,” I said, “you are a faithful friend. Listen! I see before me the lost hand of your dead master. I know it by the sapphire ring. It is surrounded by a pale light, and moves slowly. My sister has seen it three times in her sleep; and I see it now with my waking eyes. You may laugh, Robert; but it is too true.”

I was not prepared for the indignant reply:

“Laugh, Miss Dorothy! The Lord forbid! If so be you do see anything, and it should be the Lord’s will to reveal anything about poor dear Master Edmund to you as loved him, and is his sister, who am I that I should laugh? My mother had a cousin (many a time has she told me the story) as married a sailor (he was mate on board a vessel bound for the West Indies), and one night, about three weeks after her husband had–“

“Robert!” I said, “you shall tell me that story another day with pleasure; but no time is to be lost now. I mean to follow the hand: will you come with me and take care of me?”

“Go in, ma’am,” he said; “wrap up warm, and put on thick shoes, and come quietly down to this door. I’ll just slip in and quiet the servants, and meet you.”

“And bring a lantern,” I said; “this light does not light you.”

In five minutes we were there again; and the hand was vivid as ever.

“Do you see it now?” whispered the butler, anxiously.

“Yes,” I said; “it is moving.”

“Go on,” he said; “I will keep close behind you.”

It was pitch dark, and, except for the gleaming hand, and the erratic circles of light cast by the lantern, we could see nothing. The hand gradually moved faster, increasing to a good walking pace, passing over the garden-gate and leading us on till I completely lost knowledge of our position; but still we went steadily forward. At last we got into a road, and went along by a wall; and, after a few steps, the hand, which was before me, moved sharply aside.

“Robert,” I said, “it has gone over a gate–we must go too! Where are we?”

He answered, in a tone of the deepest horror–

“Miss Dorothy! for the Lord’s sake, think what you are doing, and let us turn back while we can! You’ve had sore affliction; but it’s an awful thing to bring an innocent man to trouble.”

“The innocent man is in trouble!” I said, passionately. “Is it nothing that he should die, if truth could save him? You may go back if you like; but I shall go on. Tell me, whose place is this?”

“Never mind, my dear young lady,” he said, soothingly. “Go on, and the Lord be with you! But be careful. You’re sure you see it now?”

“Certain,” I said. “It is moving. Come on.”

We went forward, and I heard a click behind me.

“What is that?” I said.

“Hush!” he whispered; “make no noise! It was my pistol. Go gently, my dear young lady. It is a farmyard, and you may stumble.”

“It has stopped over a building!” I whispered.

“Not the house!” he returned, hoarsely.

“I am going on,” I said. “Here we are. What is it? Whose is it?”

He came close to me, and whispered solemnly–

“Miss Dorothy! be brave, and make no noise! We are in Farmer Parker’s yard; and this is a barn.”

Then the terror came over me.

“Let us turn back,” I said. “You are right. One may bear one’s own troubles, but not drag in other people. Take me home!”