he hall, and ran along the
outer passage, to meet, as he expected, the ghost full and fair at the
other door. "Run!" cried a small voice. "I'll hold him; run!" Gerald was
grasped once more, this time by a pair of valiant little hands which
did their best, and which he put aside very gently, seeing a petticoat
beneath them. "You sha'n't catch him!" cried the second spectre,
clinging stoutly to his legs.

"Twice he wrung her hands in twain,
But the small hands closed again!"

Meantime the spectre-in-chief had darted back into the closed passage.
There was a crash. The half-ghost toppled over as he ran against it, and
was shivered on the floor, adding another noise to the confusion. The
phantom raced along the passage, took a flying leap over Miss
Sophronia's prostrate form, revealing, had any looked, an unsuspected
blackness of leg beneath the flowing white, and scudded along the square
upper hall. By this time Gerald was at his heels again, and a pretty
race it was. Round the hall, up the stairs, and round the landing of the
attic flight. At the attic door the spectre wavered an instant,--then
turned, and dashed down-stairs again. Once more round the upper hall,
now down the great front staircase, gathering his skirts as he went,
the black legs now in good evidence, and making wonderful play. A good
runner, surely. But the Greyhound was gaining; he was upon him. The
phantom gave a wild shriek, gained the front door with one desperate
leap, and plunged, followed by his pursuer, into the arms of a gentleman
who stood in the doorway, in the act of entering.

"Easy, there!" said Mr. Montfort, receiving pursuer and pursued with
impartial calm. "Is it the Day of Judgment, or what?"

CHAPTER XV.

A DEPARTURE.

"I am extremely sorry, Sophronia, that you were so alarmed last night. I
trust you feel no ill effects this morning?"

"Ill effects! My dear John, I am a wreck! Simply a wreck, mentally and
physically. I shall never recover from it--never."

"Oh, don't say that, Cousin Sophronia!" exclaimed Margaret, who was
really much distressed at all that passed.

"My love, if it is the truth, I must say it. Truth, Margaret, is what I
live for. No, I shall never recover, I feel it. My prayer is that these
unhappy children may never know that they are the cause of my
untimely--"

"Has Basil made his apology?" asked Mr. Montfort, abruptly.

"Yes, John, yes; I am bound to say he has, though he showe