"We must have been mistaken, after all," thought Lionel.
Nevertheless, he stood under the tree, and cast his keen glances around.
Nothing could he see; nothing but what ought to be there. The wide lawn,
the sweet flowers closed to the night, the remoter parts where the trees
were thick, all stood cold and still in the white moonlight. But of
human disturber there was none.
Lionel went back again, plucking a white geranium blossom and a sprig
of sweet verbena on his way. Lucy was sitting alone, as he had left her.
"It was a false alarm," he whispered. "Nothing's there, except the
tree."
"It was not a false alarm," she answered. "I saw him move away as you
went on to the lawn. He drew back towards the thicket."
"Are you sure?" questioned Lionel, his tone betraying that he doubted
whether she was not mistaken.
"Oh, yes, I am sure," said Lucy. "Do you know what my old nurse used to
tell me when I was a child?" she asked, lifting her face to his. "She
said I had the Indian sight, because I could see so far and so
distinctly. Some of the Indians have the gift greatly, you know.
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