The Lieutenant professed himself profoundly interested in this narrative, which he and Alix then proceeded to discuss in all its bearings, and more particularly, of course, in its relation to the figure seen by him in the cove.  It is true that Alix never quite believed in the genuineness of the apparition; but, seeing that Dick really wished to have it taken seriously, she decided tactfully to humour him, and made quite a nine days’ wonder of the mysterious occurrence.  Their own wedding-day was, however, fast drawing on, so they soon found other things to talk and think of.  To be brief, they were in due course married, and, amid the cares and pleasures of wedded life, the story, though not forgotten, came to be very seldom referred to.  So twenty years passed; at the end of which time the Colonel (as he now was), accompanied by his wife and several youngsters, paid one of his not very frequent visits to his wife’s parents at Clyffe House.

On the first night of the visit, after dinner, Alix’s father had significantly recalled the story of the maid Barbara’s disappearance, and, after stating that the mystery had now been finally cleared up, had gone on to relate the following particulars:—­A few days previously there had lain at the point of death in the infirmary at Berwick an aged fisherman, who had long been known in the seaport town for his solitary habits and morose and violent ways.  As death drew near, it became evident that his mind was sorely troubled, and to one of the nurses or doctors who had sought to comfort him he had been led to make the acknowledgment that a guilty secret weighed upon his soul, making him fearful to confront his Maker.  He then told how, as a young man, he had passionately loved a pretty servant-girl employed at Clyffe House.  Misled by those smiles and that graciousness of manner which in the guileless amiability of her nature the girl lavished upon all alike, he had for a moment imagined himself her favoured suitor.  How bitter, then, was the blow, and how rude the awakening when he learned that a younger brother of his own, a mere boy, was preferred before himself!  Nor was it only unrequited love that grieved him.  No, he believed, or managed to persuade himself, that an unfair advantage had been taken of him, by which he had been made the lovers’ dupe.  A silent man, he took no one into his confidence, but abode his time until the eve of the wedding-day.  On that day he had accidentally intercepted a note from the girl Barbara, addressed to his brother, in which she had agreed to meet her bridegroom of the morrow in the cove below Clyffe House one hour before midnight, to spend a final hour together before the momentous crisis in their lives.  Instantly it had occurred to the elder brother to use the knowledge gained from the note in order to make one last desperate appeal on his own account to the sweet girl he loved so madly.  Accordingly he kept back the missive, and, to make assurance doubly sure, mixed a soporific drug with