“Not just now.  What is your own idea?”

“I cannot be said to have one about it.  It is too absurd to tell you that my brother George is impressed with a belief a vampyre has visited the house.”

“I never in all my life heard a more circumstantial narrative in favour of so hideous a superstition.”

“Well, but you cannot believe—­”

“Believe what?”

“That the dead can come to life again, and by such a process keep up vitality.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then why do you ask me such questions?”

“But the glaring facts of the case.”

“I don’t care if they were ten times more glaring, I won’t believe it.  I would rather believe you were all mad, the whole family of you—­that at the full of the moon you all were a little cracked.”

“And so would I.”

“You go home now, and I will call and see your sister in the course of two hours.  Something may turn up yet, to throw some new light upon this strange subject.”

With this understanding Henry went home, and he took care to ride as fast as before, in order to avoid questions, so that he got back to his old ancestral home without going through the disagreeable ordeal of having to explain to any one what had disturbed the peace of it.

When Henry reached his home, he found that the evening was rapidly coming on, and before he could permit himself to think upon any other subject, he inquired how his terrified sister had passed the hours during his absence.

He found that but little improvement had taken place in her, and that she had occasionally slept, but to awaken and speak incoherently, as if the shock she had received had had some serious affect upon her nerves.  He repaired at once to her room, and, finding that she was awake, he leaned over her, and spoke tenderly to her.

“Flora,” he said, “dear Flora, you are better now?”

“Harry, is that you?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, tell me what has happened?”

“Have you not a recollection, Flora?”

“Yes, yes, Henry; but what was it?  They none of them will tell me what it was, Henry.”

“Be calm, dear.  No doubt some attempt to rob the house.”

“Think you so?”

“Yes; the bay window was peculiarly adapted for such a purpose; but now that you are removed here to this room, you will be able to rest in peace.”

“I shall die of terror, Henry.  Even now those eyes are glaring on me so hidiously.  Oh, it is fearful—­it is very fearful, Henry.  Do you not pity me, and no one will promise to remain with me at night.”

“Indeed, Flora, you are mistaken, for I intend to sit by your bedside armed, and so preserve you from all harm.”

She clutched his hand eagerly, as she said,—­

“You will, Henry.  You will, and not think it too much trouble, dear Henry.”