And I began to breathe more freely, trusting that the dread of the shadow's possible return was really only due to the child's overwrought nerves.
Till—one morning—my fool's paradise was abruptly destroyed.
Father came in late to breakfast—he had been for an early walk, he said, to get rid of a headache. But he did not look altogether as if he had succeeded in doing so.
"Leila," he said, as I was leaving the room after pouring out his coffee—mamma was not yet allowed to get up early—"Leila, don't go. I want to speak to you."
I stopped short, and turned towards the table. There was something very odd about his manner. He is usually hearty and eager, almost impetuous in his way of speaking.
"Leila," he began again, "you are a sensible girl, and your nerves are strong, I fancy. Besides, you have not been ill like the others. Don't speak of what I am going to tell you."
I nodded in assent; I could scarcely have spoken. My heart was beginning to thump. Father would not have commended my nerves had he known it.
"Something odd and inexplicable happened last night," he went on. "Nugent and I were sitting in the gallery. It was a mild night, and the moon magnificent. We thought the gallery would be pleasanter than the smoking-room, now that Phil and his pipes are away. Well—we were sitting quietly. I had lighted my reading-lamp on the little table at one end of the room, and Nugent was half lying in his chair, doing nothing in particular except admiring the night, when all at once he started violently with an exclamation, and, jumping up, came towards me. Leila, his teeth were chattering, and he was blue with cold. I was very much alarmed—you know how ill he was at college. But in a moment or two he recovered.
"'What on earth is the matter?' I said to him. He tried to laugh.
"'I really don't know,' he said; 'I felt as if I had had an electric shock of cold—but I'm all right again now.'