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Then they were married, and, quite correctly, went abroad to float in a gondola on the Grand Canal–together; to cross the Gemmi–together; to stroll about Pompeii and cross to Capri–together; and then ravage antiquity shops in Paris–together. They returned in the early days of a glorious September. The house was ready for its master and mistress to lay the touch of their personality on it, and put in place the trophies of their Wedding Journey.

The evil look the house once had was gone.

A few old trees had been cut down round it to let in the glorious autumn sun all over the house, and when, on their first morning, after a good sound, well-earned sleep, they took their coffee on the terrace off the breakfast room, under a yellow awning, they certainly did not think, if they ever had, of the mysterious rumors against the house which had been whispered about when they first bought it. To them it seemed that they had never seen a gayer place.

But on the second night, just as the Woman was putting her book aside, and had a hand stretched out to shut off the light, she stopped–a carriage was coming up the drive. She sat up, and listened for the bell. It did not ring. After a few moments–as there was absolutely no sound of the carriage passing–she got up, and gently pushed the shutter–her room was on the front–there was nothing there, so, attaching no importance to it, she went quietly to bed, put out her light, just noticing as she did so, that it was midnight, and went to sleep. In the morning, the incident made so little impression on her, that she forgot to even mention it.

The next night, by some queer trick of memory, just as she went to bed, the thing came back to her, and she was surprised to find that she had no sleep in her. Instead of that she kept looking at the clock, and just before twelve, cold chills began to go down her back, when she heard the rapid approach of a carriage–this time she was conscious that her hearing was so keen that she knew there were two horses. She listened intently–no doubt about it–the carriage had stopped at the door.

Then there was a silence.

She was just convincing herself that there must be some sort of echo which made it appear that a team passing in the road had come up the drive–when she was suddenly sure that she heard a hurried step in the corridor–it passed the door. Now she was naturally a very unimaginative person, and had never had occasion to know fear. So, after a bit, she put out her light, saying to herself that a belated servant was busy with some neglected work–nothing more likely–and she went to sleep.

Again the morning sunlight, the Man’s gay companionship, the hundreds of delightful things to do, wiped out that bad quarter of an hour, and again it never occurred to her to mention it.

The next night the remembrance came back so vividly after the Man had gone to his room, that she regretted she had not at least asked him if he had heard a carriage pass in the night. Of course she was sure that he had not. He was such a sound sleeper. Besides, it was not important. If he had, he would not have been nervous about it. Still, she could not sleep, and, just before the dining room clock began to chime midnight–she had never heard it before, and that she heard it now was a proof of how her whole body was listening–again came the rapid tread of running horses. This time every hair stood up on her head, and before she could control herself, she called out toward the open door: “Dearest, are you awake?”

Almost before she had the words out he was standing smiling in the doorway. It was all right.