“And now you will take me home, will you not?” added Floy, appealingly.
“Yes; for I came here with that purpose, and my carriage is waiting at the gate. Come,” he said, putting out the lamp and taking up the flaring lantern left by Otho Maury, as he moved toward the door.
Floy paused to shut down the window, and followed him, oh, so gladly, out of that horror-haunted house in the sweet moist air of the spring night, breathing a sigh of relief when she found herself going down the graveled walk, through the grove, by Beresford’s side.
“Oughtn’t we to see—if he is hurt or killed?” she murmured, timidly.
Beresford answered, carelessly:
“Oh, he is all right. I hear him coming behind us now.”
And, sure enough, a voice called, humbly:
“Beresford—Miss Fane! Will you please wait a moment?”
They paused, and saw Otho Maury limping dejectedly toward them, looking very meek in the bright moonlight that streamed through interstices of the trees.
Floy’s tender little heart gave a leap of joy that he was not killed, although she knew that he well deserved it.