"And how shall I do so, Mildred? I have heard people say that the bravest men have been alarmed by spirits."
"You must accustom yourself to midnight hours and dark places, all alone. Our poor mother taught you this fear."
"I should think of her, Mildred, until my heart would burst, and my cheek grew pale as ashes," said Henry, with an earnest and solemn emphasis.
"Her spirit, could it rise, would love you, brother; it would never seek to do you harm," replied Mildred thoughtfully.
"Sister," said Henry, "you came here in sport, but you have made me very sad."
Mildred walked off a few paces and remained gazing steadfastly over the parapet. When she looked back she saw Henry approaching her.
"You stoop, brother, in your gait," she said, "that's a slovenly habit."
"It comes, sister, of my climbing these mountains so much. We mountaineers naturally get a stoop on the hill-sides. But if you think," continued Henry, reverting to the subject which had just been broken off, "it would make me bolder to watch of nights, I should not care to try it."
"I would have you," said Mildred, "walk your rounds, like a patrole, through the woods from twelve until two, every night for a week."
"Agreed, sister—rain or shine."