time, as I had done before.  There were marks upon the grass here and there—­I could not call them footsteps—­all about; but that told for nothing one way or another.  I had examined the ruined rooms closely the first day.  They were half filled up with soil and debris, withered brackens and bramble,—­no refuge for any one there.  It vexed me that Jarvis should see me coming from that spot when he came up to me for his orders.  I don’t know whether my nocturnal expeditions had got wind among the servants, but there was a significant look in his face.  Something in it I felt was like my own sensation when Simson in the midst of his scepticism was struck dumb.  Jarvis felt satisfied that his veracity had been put beyond question.  I never spoke to a servant of mine in such a peremptory tone before.  I sent him away “with a flea in his lug,” as the man described it afterwards.  Interference of any kind was intolerable to me at such a moment.

But what was strangest of all was, that I could not face Roland.  I did not go up to his room, as I would have naturally done, at once.  This the girls could not understand.  They saw there was some mystery in it.  “Mother has gone to lie down,” Agatha said; “he has had such a good night.”  “But he wants you so, papa!” cried little Jeanie, always with her two arms embracing mine in a pretty way she had.  I was obliged to go at last, but what could I say?  I could only kiss him, and tell him to keep still,—­that I was doing all I could.  There is something mystical about the patience of a child.  “It will come all right, won’t it, father?” he said.  “God grant it may!  I hope so, Roland.”  “Oh, yes, it will come all right.”  Perhaps he understood that in the midst of my anxiety I could not stay with him as I should have done otherwise.  But the girls were more surprised than it is possible to describe.  They looked at me with wondering eyes.  “If I were ill, papa, and you only stayed with me a moment, I should break my heart,” said Agatha.  But the boy had a sympathetic feeling.  He knew that of my own will I would not have done it.  I shut myself up in the library, where I could not rest, but kept pacing up and down like a caged beast.  What could I do? and if I could do nothing, what would become of my boy?  These were the questions that, without ceasing, pursued each other through my mind.

Simson came out to dinner, and when the house was all still, and most of the servants in bed, we went out and met Dr. Moncrieff, as we had appointed, at the head of the glen.  Simson, for his part, was disposed to scoff at the Doctor.  “If there are to be any spells, you know, I’ll cut the whole concern,” he said.  I did not make him any reply.  I had not invited him; he could go or come as he pleased.  He was very talkative, far more so than suited my humor, as we went on.  “One thing is certain, you know; there must be some human agency,” he said.  “It is all bosh about apparitions.  I never have investigated