My sister had been out for a stroll one night, visiting a sick peasant
or performing some other of the numerous acts of charity by which she
had made herself beloved by the whole countryside.
"John," she said when she returned, "have you seen Cloomber Hall at
night?"
"No," I answered, laying down the book which I was reading. "Not since
that memorable evening when the general and Mr. McNeil came over to make
an inspection."
"Well, John, will you put your hat on and come a little walk with me?"
I could see by her manner that something had agitated or frightened her.
"Why, bless the girl!" cried I boisterously, "what is the matter? The
old Hall is not on fire, surely? You look as grave as if all Wigtown
were in a blaze."
"Not quite so bad as that," she said, smiling. "But do come out, Jack.
I should very much like you to see it."
I had always refrained from saying anything which might alarm my sister,
so that she knew nothing of the interest which our neighbours' doings
had for me. At her request I took my hat and followed her out
into the darkness. She led the way along a little footpath over the
moor, which brought us to some rising ground, from which we could look
down upon the Hall without our view being obstructed by any of the
fir-trees which had been planted round it.
"Look at that!" said my sister, pausing at the summit of this little
eminence.
Cloomber lay beneath us in a blaze of light. In the lower floors the
shutters obscured the illumination, but above, from the broad windows of
the second storey to the thin slits at the summit of the tower, there
was not a chink or an aperture which did not send forth a stream of
radiance.
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