ed to take up the
hearth-broom in self-defence; finally they trooped off, to hold a
consultation in the hall.

"Shall we divide our forces and go in small parties?" inquired Hugh,
looking at Grace.

"I say we go just as it happens," said Peggy. "I think that will be much
more exciting."

"Perhaps it will," said Hugh, becoming resigned, as he saw Peggy link
her arm in Grace's. "Come on, then, girls and boys! Suppose we begin
with the garret; Margaret has been promising to show me its wonders ever
since I came."

On the second landing they paused to salute the old portraits, and Hugh
must point out this or that one that had a familiar look.

"This might be Margaret's self, I always think, Miss Wolfe; this
sweet-faced lady in the silvery green gown. See! she has the same clear,
quiet, true eyes, and her hair is the same shade of soft brown. A lovely
face."

"Are you looking at the Sea-green Me?" asked Margaret over his shoulder.
"Our dear Rita liked it, and used to call it her Sea-green Margaret. But
come now and look at the glorious Regina, who actually has a look of
Rita herself. And I want Grace to see Hugo, too."

[Illustration: "ON THE SECOND LANDING THEY PAUSED TO SALUTE THE OLD
PORTRAITS."]

She passed on, and Grace was about to follow, but Hugh detained her.
"Just one moment," he said, speaking low. "This is a fine collection,
Miss Wolfe, but I see no portrait of the Wood-nymph."

"The Wood-nymph?"

"Yes. Do you not know that a dryad haunts this garden of Fernley?
Sometimes she is not seen, only heard in the dusk, singing magical
songs, that fill whoever hears them with a strange feeling akin to
madness. But sometimes--sometimes she leaves her tree, and comes out in
the moonlight, and--dances--"

He paused. Grace had started, and now looked up at him with a curious
expression, in which anger, mirth, and fear seemed struggling for the
upper hand. Before she could reply, a terrific scream rang through the
gallery, startling the whole party. Turning, they saw Jean, who had run
on before the rest in her eagerness to explore, standing at the farther
end of the corridor, with open mouth and staring eyes, the very image of
terror.

"My dear child," cried Margaret, running toward her, "what is it? Are
you hurt?"

"What is it, Jeanie?" said Peggy, who was the first to reach her sister,
and already had her in her arms. "Jean, don't gasp so! You have seen
something; is that it? Margaret, what did I always t