the wonderful beauty of the
approaching storm. They responded readily enough, and were really
interested and impressed. Once or twice, it is true, Basil stole a
glance at his sister, and generally found her looking at him in a
puzzled, inquiring fashion; then he would shake his head slightly, and
give himself up once more to watching the sky.

It was a very extraordinary sky. The clouds, now deep purple, covered it
almost from east to west; only low down in the west a band of angry
orange still lingered, and added to the sinister beauty of the scene.
The red caverns opened deeper and brighter, and now and again a long,
zigzag flash of gold stood out for an instant against the black, and
following it came crack upon crack of thunder, rolling and rumbling over
their heads. But still the air hung close and heavy, still there was no
breath of wind, no drop of rain.

Sitting thus, and for the moment silent, there came, in a pause of the
thunder, a new sound; a sound that some of them, at least, knew well.
Close at hand, rising apparently from the very wall at their side, came
the long, eerie wail of the night before. Louder and louder it swelled,
till it rang like a shriek in their ears, then suddenly it broke and
shuddered itself away, till only the ghost of a sound crept from their
ears, and was lost. Margaret and Gerald both sprang to their feet, the
girl held the children's hands fast in hers, the lad clutched the boy in
his arms till he whimpered and cried; their eyes met, full of inquiry,
the same thought flashing from blue eyes and gray. Not the children?
What, then? Before Gerald could speak, Miss Sophronia was clinging to
him again, shrieking and crying; calling upon him to save her; but this
time Gerald put her aside with little ceremony.

"If you'll take this boy!" he cried. "Hold him tight, please, and don't
let him get off. I'm going--if I may?" he looked swift inquiry at
Margaret.

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried the girl. "Do go! We are all right. Cousin
Sophronia, you _must_ let him go."

Dropping Merton into the affrighted lady's arms, the lithe, active youth
was in the house in an instant, following the Voice of Fernley. There it
came again, rising, rising,--the cry of a lost soul, the wail of a
repentant spirit.

"A roarer, by all means!" said young Merryweather. "But where, and by
whom?" He ran from side to side, laying his ear against the wall here,
there, following the sound. Suddenly he stopped short, lik