The prospect without is dreary in the extreme. A storm is steadily rising, and the wind is soughing mournfully through the trees. Great sullen drops of rain fall with vindictive force against the panes.
—-"Now, confess, you are the most foolish child in the world," says 'Duke, cheerfully, seeing I am still depressed. "Who would willingly be out such an evening as this! Not even a dog, if he could help it; and certainly a spectre would have far too much sense."
"If it was fancy, it was very vivid," I say, reluctantly, "and, besides, I am not fanciful at all. I was a little unlucky, I think; it reminded me of—of—-"
"A Banshee?" asks 'Duke, laughing.
"Well, yes, something like that," I admit seriously.
"Oh, Marmaduke, I hope no bad fortune is in store for us. I feel a strange foreboding at my heart."
"You feel a good deal of folly," says my husband. "Phyllis, I am ashamed of you. The idea of being superstitious in the nineteenth century! I shall give you a good scolding for this, and at the same time some brandy-and-water. Your nerves are unstrung, my dearest; that is all. Come, sit down here, and try to be sensible, while I ring the bell."
As he speaks he rings it.
"Tynon, have the grounds searched again directly. It is very annoying that tramps should be allowed the run of the place. A stop must be put to it. Half a glass of brandy and a bottle of soda."
"Yes, sir."