The Ghost of Guir House

"I am going to show you the prettiest spot in all the world," said

Dorothy, "a place where I often go and sit alone."

They walked side by side, there being no longer any path, or, if

there had been one, it was now covered, and the sunlight, filtering

through the tree-tops, fell in brilliant patches upon the gaudy

carpet beneath their feet. They had walked a mile, when Paul heard

the murmur of distant water, and saw that they were heading for a

rocky gorge, through which a small stream forced its way in a jumble

of tiny cataracts and pools. It was an ideal spot, shut in from all

the world beyond. The restful air, barely stirring the tree-tops, and

the water, as it went dripping from stone to stone, made just enough

sound to intimate that the life principle of a drowsy world was

existent. They seated themselves upon a rocky ledge, and Dorothy

became absorbed in reverie; while Paul, from a slightly lower point,

gazed up at the trees, the sky, and the girl, with mute infatuation.

"You lead such an ideal life here," he said, after some minutes of

silence, "that I should imagine the outer world would seem harsh and

cold by contrast."

"But I have never seen what you call the outer world," she answered,

with a touch of melancholy in her voice.

"Do you mean to say that you have lived here always?"

"Yes, and always shall, unless some one helps me away."

"I don't think I quite understand," he replied, "who could help you

away, if your own people would not. Pardon the allusion, but I do not

grasp the situation."

"I could never go with any of the Guirs," she answered, with a

shudder, "for I am quite as much afraid of them as they are of me."

Paul was again silent. He was meditating whether it were best to ask

frankly what she meant, and risk the girl's displeasure, as well as

his own identity, or to take another course. Presently he said: "Dorothy, I would not pry into the secrets of your soul for the

world, and am sure you will believe in my honesty in declaring that

there is no one whom I would more gladly serve than yourself. I think

you must know this."

An eager glance for a moment dispelled the melancholy of her face,

and then the old look returned with added force, as she answered: "Yes, Paul, I believe what you say, and admit that you, of all men,

could be of service; and yet you have no conception of the sacrifice

you would entail upon yourself by the service you would render. Could

I profit myself at the cost of your eternal sorrow? You do not know,

and alas! I cannot explain; but the boon of my liberty would, I fear,

only be purchased at the price of yours. I had not thought I should

be so perplexed!"