It was the last evening of their stay at the old place. On the morrow Margaret Verschoyle was to be his wife, and they were to go direct to his beautiful Devonshire home for the purpose of comfortably installing her mother there, before setting forth on the tour. Mrs. Verschoyle's health had wonderfully improved with the knowledge of her children's bright prospects; and wonders were expected from the soft Devonshire air.
They had been reading a letter from Laurence, full of hope and enthusiasm for the new life he had begun in Canada, where he had chosen to make his start, Meredith having rendered the way easy for him.
As they lingered on the terrace, the happy girl ventured to whisper out the confession that had to be made before she became his wife. She must have no secrets from him now.
"Allan, you know now—Laurence has told you what he meant to do. But there is something else you ought to know. How shall I tell you? He thought he saw a ghost that night; but, oh, Allan, it was I!"
"I don't think he would have done it after all, darling. I believe he would have made a clean breast of it in the morning, in any case."
"But are you not surprised to hear it was I who played the ghost the second time?"
He replied only by a caress.
"I did it in the desperation of the moment, and fear gave me courage."
"The first time I have heard of fear giving courage," taking the sweet face between his hands and looking into her eyes.
"Oh, well! I meant fear for him. I thought—I feared that Laurence was going into your room—I watched him go; and then, putting on a long waterproof cloak, and drawing the hood over my head to look like the monk, I followed him. It was I who put the pocket-book back."