CHAPTER VIII.
THE GHOST AGAIN.
Rose Danton stood leaning against the low, old-fashioned chimney piece in her bedroom staring at the fire with a very sulky face.

Those who fell in love with pretty Rose should have seen her in her sulky moods, if they wished to be thoroughly disenchanted.

Just at present, as she stood looking gloomily into the fire, she was wondering how the Honourable Reginald Stanford would feel on his wedding-day, or if he would feel at all, if they should find her (Rose) robed in white, floating in the fish-pond drowned! The fish-pond was large enough; and Rose moodily recollected reading somewhere that when lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, the only way to hide that folly from every eye, to bring repentance to her lover, to wring his bosom, is to--die! The clock down stairs struck eleven.

Rose could hear them dispersing to their bedrooms.

She could hear, and she held her breath to listen, Mr.
Stanford, going past her door, whistling a tune of Kate's.