Wilding had left partly open. This time I followed, as I was curious to find out who he was and what was his errand; but the chapel-room was empty.

I shut the door upon the steps and turned the key, though I left it standing in the lock.

Then I went back to the dining-parlour and sat down, for I felt suddenly weak.

The surprise of that complete disappearance was something of a shock to me, but not such as I would have supposed must be the effect on a living person of seeing what is called a ghost. Indeed I hardly admitted the haunting possibility to myself, even then: my mind was running on the fear of something having happened to Tom. I had heard of doppelgangers and apparitions of the living, and this boy was about Tom's size and age, though I could not say the figure was in his likeness: the face I did not see.

I said nothing to Ken when he came in, full of his business with the factor, and wanting me to walk over to South Muir with him in the afternoon, where he had an appointment to view the farm. Nothing then, or through the evening; and I rested quietly that night with no recurrence of my dream. But the next morning I saw the boy again.

I was about to cross the hall, and there he was on the staircase, mounting quickly, but full in view. I called to Mrs. Wilding, who was in the room behind me, collecting our breakfast-china on a tray.

"Who is the boy who has just gone upstairs, and what does he want?" I asked.

Mrs. Wilding put down the cloth she was folding; she did not seem surprised.

"I do not know, ma'am, but I'll see,"—and she ran up, while I waited below. I heard her pass from room to room, and then she came down to me. "There is nobody there," she said.

"Then what is it? You must tell me. I have seen this figure twice before. Is it a ghost?"

"Mr. Bayliss wrote that we were not to name it to you, but now you have seen for yourself I have no choice. People say it is a ghost, and some see it and some don't. I have never seen it for my part, though I have lived at Mirk Muir for years, and been through the house at all hours, day and night. I doubt if it is a ghost myself. There is no reason for a ghost to be here."

She looked strangely agitated, as she stood plucking at her apron with nervous hands, while two spots of feverish colour burned on her tragic face. The apparition seemed in some way to concern her nearly, though she professed to disbelieve.

"What do you think it is?"

"I have come to fancy—it is like to be—something made up out of my thoughts, which shows to others, though not to me—never to me. I'm always dwelling on my great trouble, that my son has gone away."

Here a sort of dry sob choked her voice, but presently she went on.

"He was but a slip of a lad, much like the figure they talk about, when he ran away to sea because his stepfather was cruel. I knew it was in his mind to go. 'Mother,' he says to me, 'I can't bear it any longer, and don't you fret. Whatever hard usage I get on board ship, it can't be as bad as what I've had here; and I shan't write, for I won't be sought for and brought back. But when I've got to an age and a weight so that Bassett can't touch me, then I'll come again to you, and we'll go away together.' Bassett had beaten him cruel, not once but hundreds of times. And the next day he was gone."

"And that is—how long ago?"

"Eight years and two months. It was when the chapel room was building. And within a year after that, Bassett fell off a ladder and was fixed helpless. Martin need not have feared him then, but I could not tell where my boy was, to let him know. I did put an advertisement in papers I thought he might see, but no notice came. Ma'am, they say that marriage is an honourable estate, and a married woman is respectable.