Looking towards the spot whence it appeared to come, she almost fancied she could make out a crouching figure.

She stopped again.

All was quiet as before.

On she went once more--decidedly faster now--and tried to sing softly to herself.

It must be the wind.
But how came the wind to blow only when she walked, and cease when she stood still?
She stopped involuntarily as she made the reflection, and the rustling noise stopped likewise.