ed to," Bob said in his casual way, "and
the mater insisted. I've left our old foreman sleeping in the house
for to-night, and I thought I would just turn in with Eustace, if
you don't mind."

"We shall be simply delighted," Mrs. Orban said, with a feeling of
real relief.

"The mater wants me to take you all back to the Highlands early
to-morrow," Bob went on; "you, Becky, and Eustace. She can't bear
to think of your loneliness here. Do come and stay with us till Mr.
Orban comes back."

It was the kind of thought good, homely little Mrs. Cochrane was
celebrated for. But Mrs. Orban shook her head.

"It is just like your mother to think of such a thing," she said,
"and just like her son to be her messenger so readily, but I can't
do it, Bob. I couldn't possibly leave the maids and the house to
take care of themselves. Mary and Kate would be terrified."

"Oh, bother Mary and Kate!" said Bob.

"I should be _most_ bothered if they took it into their heads to
run away and leave us, especially now that my sister is coming. No,
really, I cannot leave home, much as I should enjoy it. Your
mother, as an experienced housekeeper, will feel for me in that."

"We forgot the maids and the house," said Bob in a disappointed
tone.

"It can't be helped," said Mrs. Orban lightly; "and, indeed, we are
quite all right. There is nothing to be afraid of, and I have
Eustace.--Which reminds me, old man, hadn't you better be off to
bed? This is considerably later than I meant you to be."

"Oh but, mother," Eustace exclaimed, "what about Aunt Dorothy? I
couldn't sleep without the rest of that story."

"Oh yes, do let's have the rest of the story first," pleaded Bob.

"There isn't much left now," said Mrs. Orban. "I was only telling
him how we once lost Dorothy in a game of hide-and-seek when she
was five years old. We had been hunting the house for hours; a sort
of awful silence had fallen among us, as if we were expecting I
don't know what--"

"When close upon midnight," quoted Eustace in a mysterious voice.

"There arose the cry of a terror-stricken child--shriek upon
shriek--feeble because of the distance it was from the great hall,
where we were all mustered in shivering silence, but distinct
enough to be recognized as Dorothy's voice. I shall never forget
it--it makes me shudder now--for the panic in that child's cry was
appalling. What was being done to her? What awful pain was she in
that she should shriek in such a way?