'Then you believe it really happened?' said Emily, 'that some
terrible scene is being acted over again. Oh! but can it be the
real spirits!'

'That is one of the great mysteries,' answered Martyn; 'but I could
tell you of other instances.'

'Don't now,' I interposed; 'Emily has had quite enough.'

We reminded her that the ghastly tragedy was over and would not
recur again for another year; but she was greatly shaken, and we
were very sorry for her, when the clock warned her to go to her own
room, whither Martyn escorted her. He lighted every candle he could
find, and revived the fire; but she was sadly overcome by what she
had witnessed, she lay awake all the rest of the night, and in the
morning, looked so unwell, and had so little to tell about the party
that my mother thought her spirits had been too much broken for
gaieties.

The real cause could not be confessed, for it would have been
ascribed to some kind of delirium, and have made a commotion for
which my father was unfit. Besides, we had reached an age when,
though we would not have disobeyed, liberty of thought and action
had become needful. All our private confabulations were on this
extraordinary scene. We looked for the arch in the ruin, but there
was, as our morning senses told us, nothing of the kind. She tried
to sketch her remembrance of both that and the gable of the mullion
chamber, and Martyn prowled about in search of some hiding-place.
Our antiquarian friend, Mr. Stafford, had made a conjectural drawing