her sound. The Whispers had suddenly
ended, and the silence of those gaunt, frowning old walls was
undisturbed. A slight wind had now sprung up, sweeping across the hills,
and causing her to feel chill. Therefore, at last she was reluctantly
compelled to quit her post of observation, and retrace her steps by the
rough byroad to the house, entering by one of the windows of the
morning-room, of which the burglar-alarm was broken, and which on many
occasions she had unfastened after her nocturnal rambles with Stewart.
Indeed, concealed under the walls she kept an old rusted table-knife,
and by its aid it was her habit to push back the catch and so gain
entrance, after reconcealing the knife for use on a future occasion.

On reaching her own room she stood for a few moments reflecting deeply
upon her remarkable and inexplicable discovery. Had the story of those
whisperings been told to her she would certainly have scouted them; but
she had heard them with her own ears, and was certain that she had not
been deceived. It was a mystery, absolute and complete; and, regarding
it as such, she retired to bed.

But her thoughts were very naturally full of the weird story told of the
dead and gone owners of Glencardine. She recollected that horrible story
of the Ghaist of Manse and of the spectre of Bridgend. In the library
she had, a year ago, discovered a strange old book--one which sixty
years before had been in universal circulation--entitled _Satan's
Invisible World Discovered_, and she had read it from beginning to end.
This book had, perhaps, more influence upon the simple-minded country
people in Scotland than any other work. It consisted entirely of
relations of ghosts of murdered persons, witches, warlocks, and fairies;
and as it was read as an indoor amusement in the presence of children,
and followed up by unfounded tales of the same description, the
youngsters were afraid to turn round in case they might be grasped by
the "Old One." So strong, indeed, became this impression that even
grown-up people would not venture, through fear, into another room or
down a stair after nightfall.

Her experience in the old castle had, to say the least, been remarkable.
Those weird whisperings were extraordinary. For hours she lay reflecting
upon the many traditions of the old place, some recorded in the historic
notices of the House of the Montrose, and others which had gathered from
local sources--the farmers of the neighbourhood,