"Give what up?" "Not a whisper, not a step, in all the eight days. Perhaps they don't know. Perhaps they're crouching for a leap."!

"Of course I count the ghosts. It seems to me ghosts count double—for what they were and for what they are. Somehow there were no ghosts at Poynton," Fleda went on. "That was the only fault." "Not even to have Poynton."

Fleda had remained there, gathering in her purpose. "How little you know him!" Even yet, however, he hung back; and she remembered how, at the end of his hour at Ricks, she had been put to it to get him out of the house. He had in general a sort of cheerful slowness which helped him at such times, though she could now see his strong fist crumple his big, stiff gloves as if they had been paper. "But even if there's no letter—" he began. He began, but there he left it. Fleda had remained there, gathering in her purpose. "How little you know him!"