Can you ride a bicycle, child?"

"Rather, but--"

"Oh well, I'll get one for you. I've got mine stowed away. I never use it in winter, but at other times it's handy forgetting about. Now we'll have rare romps around together."

She looked at him in something of astonishment. He was talking quite excitedly, quite loudly in fact, for him.

"Why, you're scaring the poogie," she cried, with a laugh. "Look. It has gone under the table."

The little black kitten had dived under the table, and thence now began to emit a series of growls. Melian was puzzled.

"What's the matter with it?" she said. "Oh, I suppose it hears another poogie out in front, and resents it. But it's generally so placid, even then."

But to Mervyn's mind came an uncomfortable chill. He had known just such a demonstration before, but on one occasion only. And now it was behaving in exactly the same way. Its shrill growlings even increased.

Melian dived into the shadow to coax it out, then reappeared, holding the tiny creature aloft.

"Poogie. What's the matter with you?" she cried. "Be quiet now, and go seeps again."

But though it curled itself on her lap, it showed no intention of going to sleep. Instead, it lifted its little fluffy head and growled again, though not so furiously as it had done when alone.

"I do believe it's afraid of something," said the girl, wonderingly.

"It must be something outside. Look. It's staring towards the window."

Mervyn could not for the life of him account for it, but that a cold shiver was running through his whole being, there could be no doubt.

His back was to the window, the blinds were down and there was no draught. But right under this window, and against the wall, was the couch upon which the dead man had fallen asleep--never to wake again.

And in this direction the kitten was now staring--and growling; growling just as it had growled on that night of the opening of the door. And, more marvellous still, a feeling was upon him that he dare not look round, dare not turn his head and follow the little creature's set, unquiet glance--and that in the thoroughly warmed and now cheerful room.

But Melian's voice and movement broke the spell.

"What is it, poogie," she was saying, advancing to the window, and incidentally to the couch. "Another poogie outside or a dog--Oh, you little beast!"

She had broken off suddenly, dropping the kitten on to the table, under which it promptly dived and crouched, growling again. For it had grown perfectly frantic as she was carrying it to the window and had struck its claws into her hand, drawing blood.

Mervyn sprang to his feet.

"What? It has scratched you?" he cried, taking the long white hand and examining it concernedly.

"Oh, it's nothing," laughed the girl.

"Nothing or not, we'll bathe it a bit," he said, going over to the sideboard, and dashing some water into a tumbler. "Any sort of wound should be bathed at once, just in case there might be something left in it," and he proceeded to perform that process then and there.

"Oh, it's all safe," laughed the girl. "Poor little poogie! I suppose it was scared over something and had to get away at any price. I'm dead cert, it didn't mean it."

"No--no," a.s.sented Mervyn. "Cats are extraordinarily 'nervy' things. I believe they've a sight more imagination than they're given credit for.

It's quite likely it was aware of something outside to which it had an objection, a stoat perhaps or even a badger. Now a dog would have barked the house down, but there'd have been no scare."

"Of course. By the way, Uncle Seward, I wonder you don't keep a dog or two. They are such jolly beasts to have--especially in a place like this."

"I've tried it, and they've disappeared. They get into the coverts you know, and then--! I don't care to keep one always on a chain. It's beastly rough luck on them."

He had tried it, and the dogs had disappeared, even as he had said.

They had done so, however, on their own initiative. But he did not tell her this.

Yet it struck him that she must instinctively have grasped--or been affected by--something of the "influence" which at times seemed to haunt the place. She, too, now kept looking towards the blind-drawn window, and that not in her natural way. So far he had guarded her from any rumours from outside as to its sinister repute; and, as we have said, had threatened the old couple with the last extremity if they should let go anything. And now, just as he was congratulating himself that she would settle down quite happily and contentedly, comes this untoward mysterious making towards upset. And now, all at once, she had grown quite grave, quite subdued.

"Uncle Seward," she said, suddenly. "Do you remember what I said the night I arrived--that this place ought to be haunted?"

"Yes, dear, and I remember my answer--that every place not screechingly new, etc, etc, is supposed to be."

"Well, is it?"

The directness of the question was a trifle staggering, coming just when it did.

"Well, I've been in it some months--all alone too, mind you," he answered, "and I've never seen anything. All alone, mind," he reiterated, "through long, dark winter evenings and nights. Of course, that poor chap coming to grief here so mysteriously, might give rise to all sorts of yarns among the yokels. But then, where is the house-- built longer ago than last year--in which some one or other hasn't died?

No, child; you mustn't bother your little gold head over such boshy ideas as that. And if you listen to all the old women of both s.e.xes round the country side, why half of them are afraid to cross their village street after dark, unless some one invites them to the pub."

She laughed; yet somehow or other her laugh did not ring quite spontaneous.

"Of course," she said. "But--"

"But--what?"

"Oh, nothing. As you say, it's astonishing how one's imagination can play the fool with one. Tell me, Uncle Seward, do you believe in that sort of thing?"

"What? In imagination? Of course I do."

"No--no. I mean in places being haunted, and apparitions and all that?"

"No. Certainly not. The Christmas numbers have a great deal to answer for in that line. Surroundings, solitude, the state of your nerves--the weather, even--all do the rest. You can get yourself into a state which I believe theologians call 'the dispositions'--which done into plain English means that if you want to see a thing, you can, in the long run, bring yourself to see it--in imagination."

"Only in imagination. You're sure you mean that, Uncle Seward?"

"I should rather think I was sure. Go to bed now, child,"--she had lighted her candle--"and chuck out all that sort of disquieting bosh.

Why, we are as jolly here together as we can be, and we are going to be ever so much jollier. So chuck these imaginings--by the way, just because the little poogie starts growling at nothing in particular. Eh?

Sounds rather absurd doesn't it?"

"It does rather," she said, with a laugh as they bade each other good-night. But there was just a subtle something about her laugh, about her tone of voice, even about the expression of her eyes, that left her uncle in a state of vague uneasiness. Something must have occurred to alarm her; but then women were "skeery" creatures-- especially where the imaginative element came in. But for all that he didn't want even this to come in where Melian was concerned.

He sat on, after she had gone, sat on over the cosy fire, thinking. He could hear her footsteps overhead as she crossed and recrossed her room--could hear her sweet young voice trilling forth s.n.a.t.c.hes of all sorts of melodies, and again he blessed the chance that had sent her here to him in his loneliness.

He lighted another pipe, and tilted a final "nightcap" out of the square bottle at his elbow. The little black kitten jumped lightly up on to his shoulder and rubbed its soft little woolly shape against his cheek, then dropped down on to his knees and sat purring.

What could have occurred to set up a scare in the child, he wondered?

Something had--obviously--but he had purposely evaded pressing the point for fear of making it too important. Well, if it came to getting on her nerves, he would, by hook or by crook get her away--at any rate for a time. As a matter of hard fact he had grown attached to Heath Hover-- strangely so--and he occupied it practically rent free, that was for the sheer keeping of it up; and this was a consideration. Also he enjoyed a fair modic.u.m of sport--likewise free. But if it were to come to making a choice between this and his niece--why by now he knew that there would be no sort of difficulty in deciding.

He dropped more and more into the dreamy--and rather contented--stage.

He was looking forward to a very pleasurable time before him when the year should grow and mellow into glorious spring and golden summer. The sound of footsteps overhead had ceased now, and that for some time. She was asleep, and had forgotten her uncanny imaginings. He found himself looking forward to the morrow when she would be with him again--her sweet, quick, animated face, and the golden hair shining in the sunlight.

And then?--What was this? A sudden pounding of feet overhead--a strange, half stifled cry--a rush down the old creaky stairs. In a fraction of a second he was at the door, and as he opened it, framed against the dark background of pa.s.sage and staircase, Melian was standing, her face set with a strange horror that seemed to turn the spectator's blood to ice, the blue eyes dilating in a wild stare, as though they saw--or had seen--something not of the earth earthly.