Then I heard an exclamation of dismay followed by laughter in which my grandfather joined merrily.

“Oh, never mind; we’re not afraid,” she exclaimed.

I had rounded the curve in the path where I should have seen the light; but the darkness was unbroken. There was silence for a moment, in which I drew quite near to them.

Then my grandfather’s voice broke out cheerily.

“Now I must go back with you! A fine person you are to guide an old man! A foolish virgin, indeed, with no oil in her lamp!”

“Please do not! Of course I’m going to see you quite to your own door! I don’t intend to put my hand to the lantern and then turn back!”

“This walk isn’t what it should be,” said my grandfather, “we’ll have to provide something better in the spring.”

They were still silent and I heard him futilely striking a match. Then the lantern fell, its wires rattling as it struck the ground, and the two exclaimed with renewed merriment upon their misfortune.

“If you will allow me!” I called out, my hand fumbling in my pocket for my own match-box.

I have sometimes thought that there is really some sort of decent courtesy in me. An old man caught in a rough path that was none too good at best! And a girl, even though my enemy! These were, I fancy, the thoughts that crossed my mind.

“Ah, it’s Jack!” exclaimed my grandfather. “Marian was showing me the way to the gate and our light went out.”

“Miss Devereux,” I murmured. I have, I hope, an icy tone for persons who have incurred my displeasure, and I employed it then and there, with, no doubt, its fullest value.

She and my grandfather were groping in the dark for the lost lantern, and I, putting out my hand, touched her fingers.

“I beg your pardon,” she murmured frostily.

Then I found and grasped the lantern.

“One moment” I said, “and I’ll see what’s the trouble.”

I thought my grandfather took it, but the flame of my wax match showed her fingers, clasping the wires of the lantern. The cloak slipped away, showing her arm’s soft curve, the blue and white of her bodice, the purple blur of violets; and for a second I saw her face, with a smile quivering about her lips. My grandfather was beating impatiently with his stick, urging us to leave the lantern and go on.

“Let it alone,” he said. “I’ll go down through the chapel; there’s a lantern in there somewhere.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” she remarked; “but I recently lost my best lantern!”

To be sure she had! I was angry that she should so brazenly recall the night I found her looking for Pickering’s notes in the passage at the Door of Bewilderment!