He bent his head, fondly kissing her.  “We will forget it together, Sibylla.”

A sudden thought appeared to strike her, called forth, no doubt, by this new state of things, and her face turned crimson as she looked at Lionel.

“Ought I to remain here now?”

“You cannot well do anything else, as it is so late,” he answered.  “Allow Verner’s Pride to afford you an asylum for the present, until you can make arrangements to remove to some temporary home.  Mrs. Tynn will make you comfortable.  I shall be, during the time, my mother’s guest.”

“What is the time now?” asked Sibylla.

“Nearly ten; and I dare say you are tired.  I will not be selfish enough to keep you up,” he added, preparing to depart.  “Good-night, my dearest.”

She burst into fresh tears, and clung to his hand.  “I shall be thinking it must be a dream as soon as you leave me.  You will be sure to come back and see me to-morrow?”

“Come back—­ay!” he said, with a smile; “Verner’s Pride never contained the magnet for me that it contains now.”

He gave a few brief orders to Mrs. Tynn and to his own servant, and quitted the house.  Neither afraid of ghosts nor thieves, he took the field way, the road which led by the Willow Pond.  It was a fine, cold night, his mind was unsettled, his blood was heated, and the lonely route appeared to him preferable to the one through the village.

As he passed the Willow Pond with a quick step, he caught a glimpse of some figure bending over it, as if it were looking for something in the water, or else about to take a leap in.  Remembering the fate of Rachel, and not wishing to have a second catastrophe of the same nature happen on his estate, Lionel strode towards the figure and caught it by the arm.  The head was flung upwards at the touch, and Lionel recognised Robin Frost.

[Illustration:  “He caught a glimpse of a figure bending over it.”]

“Robin! what do you do here?” he questioned, his tone somewhat severe in spite of its kindness.

“No harm,” answered the man.  “There be times, Mr. Lionel, when I am forced to come.  If I am in my bed, and the thought comes over me that I may see her if I only stay long enough upon the brink of this here water, which was her ending, I’m obliged to get up and come here.  There be nights, sir, when I have stood here from sunset to sunrise.”

“But you never have seen her, Robin?” returned Lionel, humouring his grief.

“No; never.  But it’s no reason why I never may.  Folks say there be some of the dead that comes again, sir—­not all.”

“And if you did see her, what end would it answer?”

“She’d tell me who the wicked one was that put her into it,” returned Robin, in a low whisper; and there was something so wild in the man’s tone as to make Lionel doubt his perfect sanity.  “Many a time do I hear her voice a-calling to me.  It comes at all hours, abroad and at home; in the full sunshine, and in the dark night.  ‘Robin!’ it says, ‘Robin!’ But it never says nothing more.”