“Mr. Rouncewell,” says Sir Leicester with all the nature of a gentleman shining in him, “it is late, and the roads are dark.  I hope your time is not so precious but that you will allow my Lady and myself to offer you the hospitality of Chesney Wold, for to-night at least.”

“I hope so,” adds my Lady.

“I am much obliged to you, but I have to travel all night in order to reach a distant part of the country punctually at an appointed time in the morning.”

Therewith the ironmaster takes his departure, Sir Leicester ringing the bell and my Lady rising as he leaves the room.

When my Lady goes to her boudoir, she sits down thoughtfully by the fire, and inattentive to the Ghost’s Walk, looks at Rosa, writing in an inner room.  Presently my Lady calls her.

“Come to me, child.  Tell me the truth.  Are you in love?”

“Oh!  My Lady!”

My Lady, looking at the downcast and blushing face, says smiling, “Who is it?  Is it Mrs. Rouncewell’s grandson?”

“Yes, if you please, my Lady.  But I don’t know that I am in love with him—­yet.”

“Yet, you silly little thing!  Do you know that he loves you, yet?”

“I think he likes me a little, my Lady.”  And Rosa bursts into tears.

Is this Lady Dedlock standing beside the village beauty, smoothing her dark hair with that motherly touch, and watching her with eyes so full of musing interest?  Aye, indeed it is!

“Listen to me, child.  You are young and true, and I believe you are attached to me.”

“Indeed I am, my Lady.  Indeed there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do to show how much.”

“And I don’t think you would wish to leave me just yet, Rosa, even for a lover?”

“No, my Lady!  Oh, no!” Rosa looks up for the first time, quite frightened at the thought.

“Confide in me, my child.  Don’t fear me.  I wish you to be happy, and will make you so—­if I can make anybody happy on this earth.”

Rosa, with fresh tears, kneels at her feet and kisses her hand.  My Lady takes the hand with which she has caught it, and standing with her eyes fixed on the fire, puts it about and about between her own two hands, and gradually lets it fall.  Seeing her so absorbed, Rosa softly withdraws; but still my Lady’s eyes are on the fire.

In search of what?  Of any hand that is no more, of any hand that never was, of any touch that might have magically changed her life?  Or does she listen to the Ghost’s Walk and think what step does it most resemble?  A man’s?  A woman’s?  The pattering of a little child’s feet, ever coming on—­on—­on?  Some melancholy influence is upon her, or why should so proud a lady close the doors and sit alone upon the hearth so desolate?