lived very freely two hundred years ago, and it is believed to keep it up still with his old boon companions in the old banqueting-hall at Frimstead. Nor was I willing to inconvenience Euphemia by the exposure to cold, and often to storm, consequent on watching for such spectres as disport themselves in the open air. This led me to reject such cases as that of the Bleeding Nun who haunts the ruined cloister of Harminster, the Wild Huntsman of Gresleyford Chase, or Captain Crackshemp the highwayman, who is still to be seen on bad nights riding about Banningham Health.

The Baby took to the business at once, and I must say that its sagacity was unerring. I was often troubled at the idea that the money ought really to belong to it, and I used to cudgel my brains in search of some way of laying the profits out for its advantage. But Euphemia did not seem to care. Of course I was looking out the whole time for some ghost of good character and charitable disposition who would help me to restore her to her mother's care, or otherwise provide for her future in a more suitable manner than I ever should be able to do. All my efforts in this direction failed. I saw a great number of ghosts whose appearance and general reputation inclined me to speak to them on the subject, but I could not get any of them to discuss the matter with me. There was the old Abbot of Greyford, the most venerable-looking old ghost I ever saw, who showed great favour to Euphemia, and gave her his blessing in the most paternal manner; but when I said "Amen," he vanished at once. There was old Lady Dorothy Snailing at Webleyhurst,

who kissed the Baby and almost cried over it, but only shook her stick at me and was gone before I could think what I should say to her. The White Lady of Darkleton, the Prioress of Nonnancourt, the Grey Priest of Wrangley Grange, and many others, showed a distinct partiality to the Baby, but none of them would listen to what I had to say.

This was a subject which always caused me the deepest anxiety. From a pecuniary point of view I had been doing extremely well, ever since I had had the Baby with me, but my peace of mind was gone. The change in my appearance was noted, and considered to be rather creditable; no one, people said, could go through the mental agitation of such a profession as mine without suffering from it. I had become quite a famous personage by this time. The papers were full of reference to " Mr Robert Morrison, the intrepid ghostseeker." Society had taken it up, and for a short time I was the principal attraction of the most select parties. And yet I was not happy. My mind was continually preoccupied with anxieties for the Baby's future, and for my own too. Much as I had profited, from a worldly point of view, by Euphemia's company, I was conscious that I should never be really happy till I had got rid of her. Yet, in common gratitude, I must stick to her and help her on in every way I could. But how was even this to be done? The future before me seemed merely a dreary vista of hopeless endeavours to carry out an impossible duty, which could be of no service to any one, and must shut me off for ever from all the schemes of happiness I had once formed.

IV.

Absorbed as I was in my new profession, I had had little time left to see anything of the old friends of a quieter and less successful time. I am naturally a sociable fellow, and I felt this considerably. Even Alice Raynsley I only saw now and then; and she too said I was changed, but not as the others did. She spoke of the worn, worried look she had never seen in me before, and begged me to tell her what it was that lay so heavily on my mind. Sometimes I had thoughts of telling her all about it; but what would have been the good? Besides, I was doubtful whether I was at liberty to speak about the Baby to any one; doubtful too, I daresay, whether she would believe such an improbable story. Something she must be told soon; for I had practically lost all hope of getting rid of the Baby, and, in that case, our engagement must be at an end, and I must devote myself in solitude to the duties of my guardianship. Some time, perhaps, when the Baby came of age-but that was a long time to look forward to.

It was a real pleasure to me, in this condition of affairs, to get an invitation to go down and spend a week with my old friend George Kirby, at his place in Cumberland. It was holiday-time, and I had no engagements on hand. Kirby was the son of a Leeds millionaire, who had bought a great place not very far from Cockermouth-Alexandra House it was called; and I knew that we should be hospitably received and well looked after-a point about which I was getting rather particular. So, in fact, we were at least I was, for, of course, Kirby didn't know that the Baby

was coming, and had made no preparations for it. There was a party of some ten or twelve people in the house, besides the host and hostess, all very friendly and merry, as far as I could make out. To make matters more cheerful, Kirby called me aside shortly after I arrived, and informed me that his wife was expecting Alice Raynsley down in a few days. I communicated this fact to Euphemia; but she seemed to care very little about it, and was altogether in a curious dreamy state I had never observed in her before.

The party at dinner that evening was a very jovial one, and there was a great deal of chaffing about my ghost-seeking experiences; but that I was accustomed to.

"Of course, we have put you in the haunted room," said Kirby; "I know that's the sort of company you like, and you're in luck, I can tell you. One of the maids saw the ghost less than a fortnight ago, and it's probably still about."

"I didn't know you had a ghost here," I answered.

"Oh yes, we have,-not of our own, you know-not a family ghost; they don't make those things at Leeds. It belongs to the old family who lived here ages ago for this is really a very old house, though my father gave it a new outside--a great Cumberland family, the Mailcotes. What's the matter, Morrison? orange too sour? Take some sugar with it."

66

Find your

No, no, never mind: it's sweet enough," I said, hurriedly. "You said the Mailcotes?"

Yes, the Mailcotes of Birkenholme great people in the old days. Birkenholme's the real name

of this place, you know; my governor called it Alexandra House, because he bought it in the year of the Prince of Wales's marriage." "And what is the ghost, Mr Kirby?" asked one of the guests, laughing.

"Well, I can't say exactly," said our host; "it's a lady, I know,the Blue Lady we call her, because, I believe, she wears a blue sacque-do take some sugar. Morrison, there's no good in making a martyr of yourself-but I have never seen her myself. I daresay Morrison will tell you all about her to-morrow."

There was a good deal more laughing and joking about the ghosts, and much merry anticipation of the wonderful story I should have to tell in the morning. I found myself much excited by the little that Kirby had said about the ghost, all of which seemed so perfectly applicable to the apparition I had seen at Temsbury the mother of Euphemia. Could it really be her? I wondered. She spoke of other duties which would take her elsewhere. Could it be that she had gone back to haunt her father's house, which, according to the little that was known, was probably the scene of her own death? If it only could be true; if I only could speak to her again and entreat her to take back the charge she had laid upon me; even if it was only in the interests of a child whom I was unable to care for properly. But again, was there not a great chance that she might avoid me of set purpose?

I got away to my room as early as I could, and waited anxiously for the appearance of the ghost. I had some idea of telling Euphemia about it, in case she might be able to exercise some kind of occult

influence over her mother's spirit, and at least oblige her to appear and speak to me. But I decided against this plan. Though the Baby had practically been deserted by it's mother, it might not be conscious of the fact; and at any rate, I was not going to try to set any division between them if such did not exist already. Respect of parents is one of the first Christian principles, and I am satisfied that if this was properly impressed upon all little ghosts, they would in many cases turn out much more creditable members of society than they are at present. Besides, the Baby was still in the same dreamy, quiescent kind of state, and I did not like to disturb it. Perhaps it was not well;—and then came over me the dreadful thought, what on earth I should do if it fell ill. It was a contingency I had never thought of before, and the conviction that I should in such a case be wholly unable to do anything to relieve its sufferings was tremely painful. Clearly I was not fitted to be the Baby's guardian, and I looked forward anxiously to what seemed to be the only chance of getting her off my hands.

ex

Absorbed in these considerations, it was some time before I observed that the phantom I wished to speak with had already appeared in the room. Chancing to look towards the cradle, I now saw the same figure that I had seen before at Temsbury, bending over the cradle, and fondly caressing the Baby, who seemed equally delighted at the meeting. As I gazed at the pair, the lady looked up and smiled, and I bowed, but otherwise she took no notice of me. knowing exactly what to do, I coughed once or twice in the hope of attracting her attention again;

Not

but as she took no notice, I determined to speak out boldly, without waiting for her to address me.

"Madam," I began, "I-a-I— ahem-I believe I have the honour to address the Countess of Ruetown?" I said at last, in despair of finding something else to say.

The lady bowed slightly, with some appearance of astonishment at my audacity.

"I desire to speak to your ladyship concerning your daughter. I -I am not at all easy in my mind about her. I do not think

Why, she is not ill?" said the Countess, anxiously interrupting

me.

"N-no, not ill," I said "not that I know of, at least-I am not sure I believe not. But, madam, I see how the mere suggestion of Euphemia

"Of the Lady Euphemia, you were saying" said the Countess, severely.

"The Lady Euphemia-exactly," I acquiesced, while thinking it was rather hard that one might not speak of one's own ward by her Christian name alone" how the mere suggestion of her falling ill affects you. May I represent to you, madam, how utterly unable I should be in such a case to give your daughter the care she required?"

"Do you mean to say," broke in the lady, indignantly, "that you would not do everything in your power

"In my power-certainly," said I, venturing to interrupt in my turn; "but that is just the point. The attentions which would be required in such a case would be beyond my power to give. In fact, madam, I regret that experience has convinced me that there are many points in which it is quite impossible for a living man like my

self to discharge the duties of the guardianship which you have been good enough to confer upon me."

"In other words, you wish to renounce the sacred charge I intrusted to you," said the Countess, sternly. Is it not so?"

Well-I-a-in fact, I must say I do think that that course would be the most satisfactory for all concerned."

"Strange," muttered the Countess, musingly "unaccountable indeed;" then she cried suddenly, in a tone that rathered frightened me, "Why do you say this? Is it not a great honour to you to be intrusted with the custody of my child? Has she not, even in this short time, brought happiness and prosperity to her guardian?"

"Well, yes," I admitted-" prosperity certainly, of a kind; but as to happiness, I am not quite so sure about that."

"Could any one be anything but happy with that sweet child?" said the lady, indignantly.

"She is a nice child," I agreed, for I wasn't going to be unjust to the Baby-"an uncommonly nice child-and certainly one ought to be very happy with her; but the fact is, I had hoped to be happy with somebody else. You see, madam, I had already formed other ties, even at the time when I first had the honour of seeing you

"And when you accepted the guardianship of my child," said the lady, severely.

If you will excuse me, I did nothing of the kind. I had not the remotest idea what the charge was you were going to commit to me. If you had allowed me to explain then, I should have told you that I am engaged to be married, and I should have strongly protested against your proposal to make me the guardian of your

"I care little for that," I said ' -I was quite bold, now that there seemed some chance of success"I only hope, madam, that you are not thinking of taking this charge from me merely in order to impose it upon some other unfortunate man. The duties of such a guardianship I have found to be, for an ordinary man, practically impossible to carry out, and I do entreat you

"You are mistaken, sir," said the Countess, proudly; "I have only once asked a favour from mortal man, and assuredly I will never do so again. From henceforth my child remains with me, to share in all the miseries of my wandering, unhappy existence. It will be a pleasant thought for you," she added, with a flash of anger in her eyes, "in the happiness you have prepared for yourself, to think that from these dangers you might have saved herand would not."

This was horrible. I began to feel that I must be acting like an absolute ruffian. The Countess had taken the Baby into her arms now, and stood looking defiantly at me. I felt that she might vanish any moment and take the Baby with her; and though her doing so would relieve me of my personal difficulties, still it was

manner.

"Of that, madam, you must be a much better judge than I can be. Surely if you had power to put the Baby under my care, you must also be capable of disposing of it--I should say her-in some other more convenient You yourself say that the life of a ghost is not a happy one; and I am sure it can only in very exceptional cases be considered useful. If it is meant as a penance, at least this harmless child can have done no wrong. Do you not think that if representations were made in the proper quarters, it might be possible to relieve her at least from the life you are speaking of?"

"It is a strange proposal," said the lady, meditatively. "I had never thought that such a thing could be possible, but-yes, sir, yes, perhaps you are right. In any case, it is worth trying. I will do anything to save my poor child from such a life; and if she be free, what matters it what becomes of me?"

"Let me hope, madam," said I, delighted at having carried my point, "that you also will obtain your freedom. And while we are upon this subject," I continued,