The morning was far advanced before he could go to bed.  When the first light of the aurora broke the sky, he looked out again; —­ and the first glimmerings of the morning in the wood were more dreadful than the deepest darkness of the past night.  Possessed by a new horror, he thought how awful it would be to see a belated ghost, hurrying away in helpless haste.  The spectre would be yet more terrible in the grey light of the coming day, and the azure breezes of the morning, which to it would be like a new and more fearful death, than amidst its own homely sepulchral darkness; while the silence all around —­ silence in light —­ could befit only that dread season of loneliness when men are lost in sleep, and ghosts, if they walk at all, walk in dismay.

But at length fear yielded to sleep, though still he troubled her short reign.

When he awoke, he found it so late, that it was all he could do to get down in time for breakfast.  But so anxious was he not to be later than usual, that he was in the room before Mr. Arnold made his appearance.  Euphra, however, was there before him.  She greeted him in the usual way, quite circumspectly.  But she looked troubled.  Her face was very pale, and her eyes were red, as if from sleeplessness or weeping.  When her uncle entered, she addressed him with more gaiety than usual, and he did not perceive that anything was amiss with her.  But the whole of that day she walked as in a reverie, avoiding Hugh two or three times that they chanced to meet without a third person in the neighbourhood.  Once in the forenoon —­ when she was generally to be found in her room —­ he could not refrain from trying to see her.  The change and the mystery were insupportable to him.  But when he tapped at her door, no answer came; and he walked back to Harry, feeling, as if, by an unknown door in his own soul, he had been shut out of the half of his being.  Or rather —­ a wall seemed to have been built right before his eyes, which still was there wherever he went.

As to the gliding phantom of the previous night, the day denied it all, telling him it was but the coinage of his own over-wrought brain, weakened by prolonged tension of the intellect, and excited by the presence of Euphra at an hour claimed by phantoms when not yielded to sleep.  This was the easiest and most natural way of disposing of the difficulty.  The cloud around Euphra hid the ghost in its skirts.

Although fear in some measure returned with the returning shadows, he yet resolved to try to get Euphra to meet him again in the library that night.  But she never gave him a chance of even dropping a hint to that purpose.  She had not gone out with them in the morning; and when he followed her into the drawing-room, she was already at the piano.  He thought he might convey his wish without interrupting the music; but as often as he approached her, she broke, or rather glided, out into song, as if she had been singing in an undertone all the while.  He could not help seeing she did not intend to let him speak to her.  But, all the time, whatever she sang was something she knew he liked; and as often as she spoke to him in the hearing of her uncle or cousin, it was in a manner peculiarly graceful and simple.