ding high in a deep blue starry heaven, and
shimmered on the strip of distant sea visible from the windows.

"Yes, but yesterday the night was not fine, and nothing was to be seen
but blackness; and it was the same the day before, and yet you stared
out of this window, as you have every night since our coming. It is
strange to see _you_ so. What is it, why don't you tell me?"

"Madeleine," said Molly, suddenly, after a lengthy pause, "I am simply
_haunted_ by that light over yonder, the Light of Scarthey. There is a
mystery about those ruins, on which I keep meditating all day long. I
want to know more. It draws me. I would give anything to be able, now,
to set sail and land there all unknown to any one, and see what manner
of life is led where that light is burning."

But Madeleine merely gave a pout of little interest. "What do you
think you would find? A half-witted middle-aged man, mooning among a
litter of books, with an old woman, and a little Frenchman to look
after him. Why, Mr. Landale himself takes no trouble to conceal that
his poor brother is an almost hopeless lunatic."

"Mr. Landale--" Molly began, with much contempt; but she interrupted
herself, and went on simply, "Mr. Landale is a very fine gentleman,
with very superior manners. He speaks like a printed book--but for all
that I _would_ like to know."

Madeleine laughed. "The demon of curiosity has a hold of you, Molly;
remember the fable they made us repeat: _De loin c'est quelque chose,
et de pres ce n'est rien._ Now you shall go straight into your bed,
and not take cold."

And Miss Madeleine, after authoritatively closing the curtains, kissed
her sister, and was about to commence immediate disrobing, when she
caught sight of the shagreen-covered book, lying open on the table.

"So your headache was your diary--how I should like to have a peep."

"I daresay!" said Molly, sarcastically, and then sat down and, pen in
hand, began to re-read her night's entry, now and then casting a
tantalising glance over her shoulder at her sister. The lines, in the
flowing convent hand, ran thus:

"Aunt O'Donoghue left us this morning, and so here we are, planted in
Pulwick; and she has achieved her plan, fully. But what is odd is that
neither Madeleine nor I seem to mind it, now. What has come over
Madeleine is her secret, and she keeps it close; but that _I_ should
like being here is strange indeed.

"And yet, every day something happens to make me feel con