A slight wind had now sprung up, sweeping across the hills, and causing her to feel chill.

Therefore, at last she was reluctantly compelled to quit her post of observation, and retrace her steps by the rough byroad to the house, entering by one of the windows of the morning-room, of which the burglar-alarm was broken, and which on many occasions she had unfastened after her nocturnal rambles with Stewart.
Indeed, concealed under the walls she kept an old rusted table-knife, and by its aid it was her habit to push back the catch and so gain entrance, after reconcealing the knife for use on a future occasion.
On reaching her own room she stood for a few moments reflecting deeply upon her remarkable and inexplicable discovery.

Had the story of those whisperings been told to her she would certainly have scouted them; but she had heard them with her own ears, and was certain that she had not been deceived.

It was a mystery, absolute and complete; and, regarding it as such, she retired to bed.
But her thoughts were very naturally full of the weird story told of the dead and gone owners of Glencardine.

She recollected that horrible story of the Ghaist of Manse and of the spectre of Bridgend.