seen. Very sweet. Most interesting. A little cloudy naturally. .
. . Mr. Renouard! I hope you are not a sceptic. It's so consoling
to think. . ."

"Those plantation boys of mine see ghosts too," said Renouard
grimly.

The sister of the philosopher sat up stiffly. What crudeness! It
was always so with this strange young man.

"Mr. Renouard! How can you compare the superstitious fancies of
your horrible savages with the manifestations . . . "

Words failed her. She broke off with a very faint primly angry
smile. She was perhaps the more offended with him because of that
flutter at the beginning of the conversation. And in a moment with
perfect tact and dignity she got up from her chair and left him
alone.

Renouard didn't even look up. It was not the displeasure of the
lady which deprived him of his sleep that night. He was beginning
to forget what simple, honest sleep was like. His hammock from the
ship had been hung for him on a side verandah, and he spent his
nights in it on his back, his hands folded on his chest, in a sort
of half conscious, oppressed stupor. In the morning he watched
with unseeing eyes the headland come out a shapeless inkblot
against the thin light of the false dawn, pass through all the
stages of daybreak to the deep purple of its outlined mass nimbed
gloriously with the gold of the rising sun. He listened to the
vague sounds of waking within the house: and suddenly he became