“It’s my house, you know,” he explained from the top step.  “There we are!  Come up, Penelope.  The fort is yours.”

She followed him into the hall above.  In silence they walked along the bare floors through empty rooms until at last he opened a door in what proved to be the left wing.  To her surprise, this room was comfortably furnished.  There were ashes in the big fireplace and there were lamps which had been used recently—­for they were filled with oil.

“Here’s where I read sometimes,” he explained.  “I have slept on that couch.  Last winter I came up here to hunt.  My cottage wasn’t finished, so I stayed here.  I’ll confess I’ve heard strange sounds—­now, don’t shiver!  Once or twice I’ve been a bit nervous, but I’m still alive, you see.”  He lighted the wicks in the two big lamps while she looked on with the chills creeping up and down her back.  “I’ll have a bully fire in the fireplace in just a minute.”

“Let me help you,” she suggested, coming quite close to him with uneasy glances over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later they were sitting before a roaring fire, quite content even though there was a suggestion of amazed ghosts lurking in the hallway behind them.  No doubt old man Grimes and his wife, if they awoke in the course of the night, groaned deep prayers in response to the bright light from the windows of the haunted house.  Shaw and Penelope smiled securely as they listened to the howling storm outside.

“Well, this is trespassing,” she said, beaming a happy smile upon him.

“I shall be obliged to drive you out, alas,” he said reflectively.  “Do you recall my vow?  As long as you are a Bazelhurst, I must perforce eject you.”

“Not to-night!” she cried in mock dismay.

“But, as an alternative, you’ll not be a Bazelhurst long,” he went on eagerly, suddenly taking her hands into his, forgetful of the wounded left.  “I’m going to try trespassing myself.  To-morrow I’m going to see your brother.  It’s regular, you know.  I’m going to tell the head of your clan that you are coming over to Shaw, heart and hand.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed.  “You—­you—­no, no!  You must not do that!”

“But, my dear, you are going to marry me.”

“Yes—­I—­suppose so,” she murmured helplessly.  “That isn’t what I meant.  I mean, it isn’t necessary to ask Cecil.  Ask me; I’ll consent for him.”

Half an hour passed.  Then he went to the window and looked out into the storm.

“You must lie down and get some sleep,” he insisted, coming back to her.  “The storm’s letting up, but we can’t leave here for quite a while.  I’ll sit up and watch.  I’m too happy to sleep.”  She protested, but her heavy eyes were his allies.  Soon he sat alone before the fire; she slept sound on the broad couch in the corner, a steamer rug across her knees.  A contented smile curved his lips as he gazed reflectively into the flames.  He was not thinking of Mrs. Renwood’s amiable ghost.