'Yes; he is come to stay!' she said. 'He is at supper now.' 'Very well; don't be flurried, dearest. Shall I stay too, as we
planned?' 'O, Swithin, I fear not!' she replied anxiously. 'You see how it is.

To-night we have broken the arrangement that you should never come here; and
this is the result. Will it offend you if--I ask you to leave?' 'Not in the least. Upon the whole, I prefer the comfort of my little cabin and homestead to the gauntness and alarms of this place.' 'There, now, I fear you are offended!' she said, a tear collecting in her
eye. 'I wish I was going back with you to the cabin! How happy we were,
those three days of our stay there! But it is better, perhaps, just now,
that you should leave me. Yes, these rooms are oppressive. They require
a large household to make them cheerful. . . . Yet, Swithin,' she added,
after reflection, 'I will not request you to go. Do as you think best.

I will light a night-light, and leave you here to consider. For myself, I
must go downstairs to my brother at once, or he'll wonder what I am
doing.' She kindled the little light, and again retreated, closing the door upon
him.

Swithin stood and waited some time; till he considered that upon the
whole it would be preferable to leave. With this intention he emerged
and went softly along the dark passage towards the extreme end, where
there was a little crooked staircase that would conduct him down to a
disused side door. Descending this stair he duly arrived at the other
side of the house, facing the quarter whence the wind blew, and here he
was surprised to catch the noise of rain beating against the windows.