alive May and she were always together; but when she was gone, and poor May was left alone, by way, I suppose, of partly forgetting her sorrow, she took to petting Flo a great deal, and had her with her almost constantly as a companion, though she was so much youngermore than eight years. I don't remember very much of that time, except that Flo was excessively fond of her, she was so sweet and gentle in her ways, they say, and would rather be with her than any one else. When I was ten, and Flo eleven, our grandmother Ainsleo came to see us. I dare say she was very good, really; but we children thought her dreadfully cross, and couldn't bear her. Flo was very much put out because she would not let her be often with May, and we were both very glad when we heard that she was going away; but Flo's joy was turned to sorrow when she heard that she was going to take May away with her on a visit. One evening, after we had come up from dessert, May followed us into the nursery. She came in crying, and kissed and fondled us both a good deal, especially Flora, who could hardly bear to be separated from her. We understood that she was saying "Good-bye;" but I don't think we quite realized that granny was going that very evening. She was one of those who always preferred travelling by night, I believe. Flo could not sleep for crying; and in the night, whether expecting to find May still in her room, or wishing to make sure that she really was gone, I don't know; but she got out of bed, and slipping on her dressing-gown, made her way along the passage that opens on the white staircase, intending to go up to the white room; for she wasn't a bit timid then, and used to go to May's room whenever she wanted anything. Nurse, who was asleep when she left the room, was presently wakened by a scream, and running out, found Flo lying in the passage in a fit. It was a long time before they could bring her round, and every one was very much frightened about her. When at last she recovered consciousness, she cried VOL. X.-NO. LIX.

out that a white lady was coming down the stairs, and was off again directly in another fit. For a long time they thought she would never get over them, and so far she never has; for when the fits passed away she was what you see her nowquite changed from what she used to be. But it was not only the fright that did it: the greatest sorrow that was possible for her, I think, came just at the same time. Early on the morning of the second day granny came back, and I knew at once, from the look in her face, that something dreadful had happened. I don't know how they ever managed to break to Flo the sad news she brought, which was that poor May had been taken very ill on the journey, and had died before she could get her home; but she cried out so for her, that they were obliged to tell her at last. It was no wonder that she got very much worse again after that. It almost broke her heart, I think. She does not seem to care for one of us now, comparatively.'

'How very, very sad!' I said, as Catty paused. But what do you really think about the cause of her fright?'

'One can't possibly tell. Flo was always rather imaginative, I think; and perhaps the moonlight fell through the passage window in such a way as to give her the idea. Our old nurse, who was very superstitious, shook her head, and said there was nothing to be wondered at, considering that it was that very night that poor Miss May died; and I think she infected the other servants with her fears, for all of them had a great dread of the white staircase after that time. As for the white room, none of them would go near it. Hilda, you saw it the evening you came. Everything is just as she left it that night. I am not nervous, as I told you then; but I don't feel as if I could bear to touch anything. It was in that dress that I saw her last.'

'Then, indeed, I don't wonder. But-Catty'-I could hardly bring out the words--' you say no one ever goes there now-not even cousin Marian, or my uncle?'

2 F

'Not any one but myself. Why should they? It is very seldom that I go. Hilda, how strange you look! Ah, there's the carriage. Now for a run! It's scarcely raining at all now.'

The church was too far off for us ever to go a second time on the Sunday, and this afternoon, being too wet for Catty and me to take our usual walk in the grounds, I took a book into the library after dinner and read. Flora was asleep on the sofa; my other cousins were not in the room. Finding myself at last growing sleepy over my book, for change of occupation I drew out from one of the lower bookshelves a very old-looking family Bible, which Catty had once pointed out to me as a great favourite with them as children, and began to turn over the leaves, and to look at the quaint illustrations that adorned them. I was thus employed when Marian entered, and seated herself with a book just opposite me, whence she had a good view of Flora's face-so white against the crimson cushions.

I came at last to the family register of names in the old Bible. Without much thought-certainly with no deliberate intention of making out my cousins' exact ages-I glanced down the page. Following the names of my uncle and aunt were those of my cousins in order of age, with the date of birth affixed to each. First there was Marian, born thirty-two years ago; then James Ayton, two years younger. After that came a name I was not familiar with, Agnes Jane. She had died, it appeared, in infancy. Next were the twins, Esther Beton and bracketedMary Isabel. How sad those two names looked! They recalled vividly to my mind Catty's narration in the morning, and I looked again to see in what year poor May had died. Then, for the first time, I noticed that there was no entry of death against her name. Had my aunt kept the list, and there been no one to continue it when she was gone? But no; her death and Esther's were entered in a clear, manly hand. Why should May's alone be omitted? Perhaps Flo's illness had been the original

cause of the neglect, and since then my uncle had either forgotten it, or dreaded a revival of the old grief. It seemed the most natural explanation. Raising my eyes from the page, I encountered Marian's glance -such a strange one! Her lips were tightly compressed, her nostrils expanded. She seemed striving to keep down the expression of some strong feeling.

'I beg your pardon!' I said, involuntarily; for I was sure that in some way I had displeased her; and when she came round to me, and closing the book with trembling hands, replaced it on the shelf, I felt terribly guilty, though I hardly knew why. Did she think that I was wishing to find out her age?— and would that possibly account for her evident annoyance?-or did she fear lest Flora, waking, should by chance come across that sister's name she so dreaded being brought before her? Marian sat down without a word, and I escaped as soon as possible to my room.

Christmas was fast approaching, and with it my cousin James's visit home. My uncle looked forward much to seeing him, evidently. It was the only subject on which I had heard him speak with animation. Marian, too, was quite eager about it. I could fancy what those two elder ones must be to each other, after death had made such a gap between them and the younger ones. Flo became rather more fluttered and nervous in manner than usual as the day drew near. She did not seem able to bear the least excitement. Catty was rather low-spirited just now. I could see that at this season she felt more than ever the separation from her favourite brother, Walter.

Cousin James was to return on the Thursday. On the Wednesday night, being somewhat wakeful, I heard for the second time that footstep on the white stairs-so exactly the same!-evidently going up to the white room-ceasing at the same spot, it seemed, in the re-descent. The story of poor Flora's alarm, eight years before, as told me by Catty in the church porch, did not tend to make me feel braver; and