“Absurd!” said Bessie.

“Well, we could not sleep even if we were in bed,” they protested.

“No fear,” said the chatelaine.  “If you were to sit up all night you would be like ghosts yourselves to-morrow morning.  Come, I’ll go with you and sit beside you till you sleep.  But wait a minute till I come back.”

When they were bidding Mr. Forrester good-night he said to the girls, “If anything happens let me know.”

“Nothing will happen,” said Bessie:  “the bell is quiet now and the servants are sound asleep.  I have just been looking at them, and the sooner we follow their example the better.”

“What are we to do if we hear the bell ring again?” John asked.

“Nothing.  Keep below the blankets, John,” his sister said.  “It will ring a loud peal indeed if you hear it:  I think a cannon might be fired at your ear without disturbing you.”

“That’s a mistake,” said John, “I am a remarkably light sleeper:  a fly on my nose will make me turn round any time.”

“I believe that, but it won’t waken you.  Good-night;” and she took a hand of each of her sisters and went off with all the dignity beseeming her position as head of the family and governor of the castle.  Her presence being withdrawn, Edwin felt much as you do on a March day when the sun goes under a cloud, although he had not enjoyed the sun either, owing to the undercurrent of east wind that continually chilled him.  He almost determined to give it up.  Of what use was it?  Evidently she did not care for him, and the words, “Mr. Forrester here again! he must surely be dull at home,” sounded in his ears.  Very east-windy they were; still, he loved her with a great love, and he could not give her up:  he was in a mist, and could see neither to go back nor forward.

“I say, Edwin,” said John confidentially, “what do you think about this bell business?  Of course one couldn’t speak of it before the girls, they are frightened enough already—­Bessie too, although she pretends not.  What’s your own private opinion about it?”

“Oh, it must be a ghost,” said Edwin:  “they do things of that kind, you know—­turn tables and rap and so on.  I’ve been thinking I must be an unconscious medium.”

“Well,” said John, “I, for one, don’t believe in that kind of thing:  if the spirits ever told anything worth hearing, or did anything worth doing, it might be different; but would Darnley or Bothwell or the abbot, or even any of the smaller fry of monks, come back here to ring a bell?  I know in their place it’s what I wouldn’t do myself.”

“It would depend on where they are and how employed,” said Edwin:  “like some other people, they may be dull at home.”

“Ah, that’s what Bessie said that’s sticking in your throat.  Man, it’s no use minding what girls say:  I never do.

“The spirits must be deplorably dull if ringing a bell is a diversion to them.”

“They may enjoy mystifying us,” said Edwin.  “Who knows but they are listening just now, and laughing in whatever they may have instead of sleeves?”