in the air around one after the sound had ceased.  Then there was a terrible stillness.  Alan stood trembling in every limb, incapable apparently of speech or action, and George faced him, as silent and motionless as he was.  For an instant they remained thus, while I looked breathlessly on.  Then George, with a muttered imprecation, turned on his heel and left the room.  Alan followed him as he went with dull lifeless eyes; and as the door closed he breathed deeply, with a breath that was almost a groan.

Taking my courage in both hands, I now descended the stairs, and at the sound of my footfall he glanced up, started, and then came rapidly to meet me.

“Evie! you here,” he said; “I did not notice you.  How long have you been here?” He was still quite white, and I noticed that he panted for breath as he spoke.

“Not long,” I answered, timidly, and rather spasmodically; “I only heard a sentence or two.  You wanted George to do something about some tradition or other,—­and he was angry,—­and he said something about the curse.”

While I spoke Alan kept his eyes fixed on mine, reading through them, as I knew, into my mind.  When I had finished he turned his gaze away satisfied, and answered very quietly, “Yes, that was it.”  Then he went back to the fireplace, rested his arm against the high mantelpiece above it, and leaning his forehead on his arm, remained silently looking into the fire.  I could see by his bent brow and compressed lips that he was engaged upon some earnest train of thought or reasoning, and I stood waiting—­worried, puzzled, curious, but above all things, pitiful, and oh! longing so intensely to help him if I could.  Presently he straightened himself a little, and addressed me more in his ordinary tone of voice, though without looking round.  “So I hear they have changed your room.”

“Yes,” I answered.  And then, flushing rather, “Is that what you and George have been quarreling about?” I received no reply, and taking this silence for assent, I went on deprecatingly, “Because you know, if it was, I think you are rather foolish, Alan.  As I understand, two girls are said to have died in that room more than a hundred years ago, and for that reason there is a prejudice against putting a girl to sleep there.  That is all.  Merely a vague, unreasonable tradition.”

Alan took a moment to answer.

“Yes,” he said at length, speaking slowly, and as if replying to arguments in his own mind as much as to those which I had uttered.  “Yes, it is nothing but a tradition after all, and that of the very vaguest and most unsupported kind.”

“Is there even any proof that girls have not slept there since those two died?” I asked.  I think that the suggestion conveyed in this question was a relief to him, for after a moment’s pause, as if to search his memory, he turned round.

“No,” he answered, “I don’t think that there is any such proof; and I have no doubt that you are right, and that it is a mere prejudice that makes me dislike your sleeping there.”