of night were already gathering.

'Charke!--what about him?--who's Charke?' asked Milly.

'Why, you must have heard of him,' said I.

'Not as I'm aware on,' answered she. 'And he killed himself, did he, hanged
himself, eh, or blowed his brains out?'

'He cut his throat in one of these rooms--_this_ one, I'm sure--for your
papa had the wainscoting stripped from the wall to ascertain whether there
was any second door through which a murderer could have come; and you see
these walls are stripped, and bear the marks of the woodwork that has been
removed,' I answered.

'Well, that _was_ awful! I don't know how they have pluck to cut their
throats; if I was doing it, I'd like best to put a pistol to my head and
fire, like the young gentleman did, they say, in Deadman's Hollow. But the
fellows that cut their throats, they must be awful game lads, I'm thinkin',
for it's a long slice, you know.'

'Don't, don't, Milly dear. Suppose we come away,' I said, for the evening
was deepening rapidly into night.

'Hey and bury-me-wick, but here's the blood; don't you see a big black
cloud all spread over the floor hereabout, don't ye see?' Milly was
stooping over the spot, and tracing the outline of this, perhaps, imaginary
mapping, in the air with her finger.

'No, Milly, you could not see it: the floor is too dark, and it's all in