tunnel through the firs. Could I have mistaken the path and be
proceeding, not towards the house, but away from it, and into the
gloom of the woods? Or perhaps the deserted lodge was that of some
other, empty establishment.

There was something uncomfortable in this reflection; momentarily I
knew a childish fear of the dim groves. I thought of the "darkness
'broidered with luminous eyes," and I walked forward rapidly,
self-assertively. Ten paces brought me to one of the many bends in the
winding road--and there, far ahead, as though out of some cavern in
the very hillside, a yellow light shone.

I pressed on with greater assurance, until the house became visible.
Now I perceived that I had indeed strayed from the carriage sweep in
some way, for the path that I was following terminated at the foot of
a short flight of moss-covered steps. I mounted the steps and found
myself at the bottom of a terrace. The main entrance was far to my
left and separated from the terrace by a neglected lawn. That portion
of the place was Hanoverian and ugly, whilst the wing nearest to me
was Tudor and picturesque. Excepting the yellow light shining out from
a window on the right of the porch, no illuminations were visible
about the house, although the brewing storm had already plunged the
hollow into premature night.

My conception of Friar's Park had been wide of the reality--and there
was no sign of occupancy about this strange-looking mansion, which
might have hidden forgotten for centuries in the horse-shoe of the
hills. The stillness of the place was of that sort which almost seems
to be palpable; that can be seen and felt. A humid chill arose
apparently from the terrace, with its stone pavings outlined in moss,