Of course something might be done by advertising, as the autumn season was coming on; and Mrs. Wilding, who was left in charge, was said to be an excellent cook.

Ken turned to me.

"I don't see why we shouldn't go there ourselves, as it is standing vacant. For a few weeks at any rate, until a tenant offers. What would you say to the plan? It would give us the opportunity of looking round."

I caught at the idea.

"I shall like it of all things," I exclaimed. "And you can settle everything else from there."

It struck me Mr. Bayliss looked relieved.

"Yes, you would do well to go, Mr. Campbell," he said. "You will understand better about the property after seeing over it, and consulting with the factor. I think I told you the Chapel House cannot be alienated so long as Mrs. Wilding lives. You are bound to keep it up to afford a home for her, though she works there as a servant. The Will provides for that, as well as for the annuity charge of which I spoke."

A curious provision this, if you come to think of it; and it will be an odd position for us—for me— with a servant in the house over whom I can have no authority, as it is her home by as clear a right as it will be my own. I cannot bid her go, however much she may transgress. But I said nothing of this to Ken, for I did not want to make difficulty; and if it is true we cannot let the Grange, it will be cheaper to live in it ourselves than to pay rent elsewhere. Then the query came up, why could not the Grange be let?—this after we had left Mr. Bayliss, and were discussing the matter between ourselves.

"Do you think it can be haunted?" I suggested, but Ken laughed aloud in scorn of the idea.

"What are you fancying about it, Maggie? It isn't an ancestral castle, hundreds of years old, but just an ugly modern house, without a scrap of romance. Ghost, indeed! It's too far from a station, or up and down too many hills on a bad road. Those are the reasons that keep houses vacant, not humbug about ghosts."

II

Ken was right in part of his description. Mirk Muir was a long way out from R--, and on a hilly road; and the Grange certainly was an ugly house. Indeed it could hardly have been plainer, or presented a more dismal exterior, than it did when we turned in through the open gate, one wet cloudy evening on the edge of dusk. The walls were faced with stucco and painted drab, the windows flat, and the slate roof dark with rain. The house itself looked square and compact as it fronted us and the gate; but to the left was a long annexe of one storey only, which appeared to be built of wood. "By George, that must be Nevill's chapel," Ken exclaimed. And then our "machine" drew up at the door.

It was opened to us by Mrs. Wilding, a tall gaunt woman, with quite the saddest face I ever saw. She made me think of those people who after a great grief are said never to have smiled again. But she was quite civil, even anxiously so; hoped we should not be inconvenienced because only two rooms had been made ready, but the notice was short, and she could only get in a girl to help. The dining-room was open, and presently there would be the service of a meal; the bedroom we were to occupy looked to the front immediately above. On the morrow, any changes we desired should of course be made.

It would do very well, we told her; and while Ken directed the driver about carrying up our luggage, I turned into the dining-room and sat down. There a lamp was lighted, and the table ready spread with a white cloth; there was even the cheer of a glowing fire which smelt delightfully of peat, and which the chill of the wet evening made welcome, summer as it was.