t the
matter over and over again as I lay awake that night, and I determined
that I would never tell Madeline the facts of the case. It would be
better for me to suffer all my life than for her to know that the ghost
of her uncle haunted the house. Mr. Hinckman was away, and if she knew
of his ghost she could not be made to believe that he was not dead. She
might not survive the shock! No, my heart could bleed, but I would never
tell her.

The next day was fine, neither too cool nor too warm; the breezes were
gentle, and nature smiled. But there were no walks or rides with
Madeline. She seemed to be much engaged during the day, and I saw but
little of her. When we met at meals she was polite, but very quiet and
reserved. She had evidently determined on a course of conduct and had
resolved to assume that, although I had been very rude to her, she did
not understand the import of my words. It would be quite proper, of
course, for her not to know what I meant by my expressions of the night
before.

I was downcast and wretched, and said but little, and the only bright
streak across the black horizon of my woe was the fact that she did not
appear to be happy, although she affected an air of unconcern. The
moonlit porch was deserted that evening, but wandering about the house I
found Madeline in the library alone. She was reading, but I went in and
sat down near her. I felt that, although I could not do so fully, I must
in a measure explain my conduct of the night before. She listened
quietly to a somewhat labored apology I made for the words I had used.

"I have not the slightest idea what you meant," she said, "but you were
very rude."

I earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness, and assured her, with
a warmth of speech that must have made some impression upon her, that
rudeness to her would be an action impossible to me. I said a great deal
upon the subject, and implored her to believe that if it were not for a
certain obstacle I could speak to her so plainly that she would
understand everything.

She was silent for a time, and then she said, rather more kindly, I
thought, than she had spoken before:

"Is that obstacle in any way connected with my uncle?"

"Yes," I answered, after a little hesitation, "it is, in a measure,
connected with him."

She made no answer to this, and sat looking at her book, but not
reading. From the expression of her face, I thought she was somewhat
softened toward me. She knew h