It seemed very strange to Hugh himself, that he should be able thus to theorize, before even he had raised himself from the couch on which, perhaps, after all, he had lain without moving, throughout that terrible night, swarming with the horrors of the dead that would not sleep.  But the long unconsciousness, in which he had himself visited the regions of death, seemed to have restored him, in spite of his aching head, to perfect mental equilibrium.  Or, at least, his brain was quiet enough to let his mind work.  Still, he felt very ghastly within.  He raised himself on his elbow, and looked into the room.  Everything was the same as it had been the night before, only with an altered aspect in the dawn-light.  The dawn has a peculiar terror of its own, sometimes perhaps even more real in character, but very different from the terrors of the night and of candle-light.  The room looked as if no ghost could have passed through its still old musty atmosphere, so perfectly reposeful did it appear; and yet it seemed as if some umbra, some temporary and now cast-off body of the ghost, must be lying or lingering somewhere about it.  He rose, and peeped into the recess where the cabinet stood.  Nothing was there but the well remembered carving and blackness.  Having once yielded to the impulse, he could not keep from peering every moment, now into one, and now into another of the many hidden corners.  The next suggesting itself for examination, was always one he could not see from where he stood:  —­ after all, even in the daylight, there might be some dead thing there —­ who could tell?  But he remained manfully at his post till the sun rose; till bell after bell rang from the turret; till, in short, Funkelstein came to fetch him.

“Good morning, Mr. Sutherland,” said he.  “How have you slept?”

“Like a —­ somnambulist,” answered Hugh, choosing the word for its intensity.  “I slept so sound that I woke quite early.”

“I am glad to hear it.  But it is nearly time for breakfast, for which ceremony I am myself hardly in trim yet.”

So saying, Funkelstein turned, and walked away with some precipitation.  What occasioned Hugh a little surprise; was, that he did not ask him one question more as to how he had passed the night.  He had, of course, slept in the house, seeing he presented himself in deshabille.

Hugh hastened to his own room, where, under the anti-ghostial influences of the bath, he made up his mind not to say a word about the apparition to any one.

“Well, Mr. Sutherland, how have you spent the night?” said Mr. Arnold, greeting him.

“I slept with profound stupidity,” answered Hugh; “a stupidity, in fact, quite worthy of the folly of the preceding wager.”

This was true, as relating to the time during which he had slept, but was, of course, false in the impression it gave.

“Bravo!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, with an unwonted impulsiveness.  “The best mood, I consider, in which to meet such creations of other people’s brains!  And you positively passed a pleasant night in the awful chamber?  That is something to tell Euphra.  But she is not down yet.  You have restored the character of my house, Mr. Sutherland; and next to his own character, a man ought to care for that of his house.  I am greatly in your debt, sir.”