"Good-night, darling Rose, and dream of me."
Rose's answer was a slap, and then Reginald was beside her, and they were driving through the luminous dusk of the winter moonlight.
"You may stop at the gate, my good fellow," said Mr. Stanford to the driver; "the night is fine—we will walk the rest of the way—eh, Rose?"
Rose's answer was a smile, and they were at the gates almost immediately. Mr. Stanford drew her hand within his arm, and they sauntered slowly, very slowly, up the dark, tree-shaded avenue.
"How gloomy it is here!" said Rose, clinging to his arm with a delicious little shiver; "and it is midnight, too. How frightened I should be alone!"
"Which means you are not frightened, being with me. Miss Rose, you are delightful!"
"Interpret it as you please. What should you say if the ghost were to start out from these grim black trees and confront us?"
"Say? Nothing. I would quietly faint in your arms. But this is not the ghost's walk. Wasn't it in the tamarack avenue old Margery saw it?"
"Let us go there!"
"It is too late," said Rose.