A FASCINATING GHOST.

      This was an advertisement I cut out of the Evening Post one spring afternoon. For half an hour I had stood the vociferous offerings of "Fourth Editions" and "Extras" without number, and for half an hour sheets of various political complexions had been thrust under my nose without effect, for I had been out of employment so long that my stock of money was nearly exhausted, and it had been a good many days since I had allowed myself the luxury of a paper. But at last I was overpersuaded by a very small but remarkably pertinacious newsboy, and for fear of further temptations put the paper hastily in my pocket and went home.

      In the old days I had been book-keeper for the late concern of Skinflint, Starvehimout & Co., and while with them I had been getting a good salary, and, to my sorrow be it said, lived pretty well up to it; so as I made nothing by the failure of the concern, and lost my place as well, I had to come down very low. I had saved a little, more by good luck than from forethought, and this little, used with the strictest economy, and added to by a few dollars made here and there in odd ways, was all that had kept me alive for eighteen months. However, I didn't feel quite disposed to go to the dogs yet, for there was always a chance of something turning up in a great city like New York.

      As I looked around my room that evening I realized how bare it was of either furniture or adornments; how unlike —   Ah, well, there was my paper; and I unfolded it with all the glee of a child over a new story-book. There was, of course, the usual political news, the usual number of railroad accidents and criminal proceedings; there were items of interest to investors and theatre-goers and travellers; but nothing for me. I had no money to invest, or for theatres, or travelling. So I skipped all that and went on to the advertisements, and the only one of them all worth reading twice was —

      I read it two or three times, and then decided it was worth trying. So I hunted up a sheet of paper, and addressed X as follows:

      The next afternoon I heard from my friend X., who proved to be a man. His letter ran thus:

      Sol. Humphreys! the last man in the world I would voluntarily have written to, and for employment, too! Two years before, I had a very nice little flirtation with pretty Mabel Humphreys, and it had gone so far that if the crash in my affairs had not occurred, I believe there might have been an understanding, if not an engagement. But as it was, I put away all thoughts of love and love-making, and dropped pretty Mabel very suddenly, without any kind of an understanding, and I had not seen her since. And now to think I had fairly got myself into it again! But, I reflected, I might not see much of Mabel, after all. So much the better. Bread and butter was a necessity, and I would go and make the best of it.

      The next morning I caught the train, but missed my breakfast, and by the time I reached the house I was decidedly hungry.

      Mr. Humphreys met me at the door, and I was pleased to see he did not seem to remember me at all. He put up his eyeglasses, and inspected me from head to foot.

      "So you're James W. Wolcott, are you, young man?"

      I told him he was not mistaken. I always had that name — born with it, I believed.

      "And you think you're a gentleman?"

      I begged his pardon — didn't think anything about it; it was a self-evident fact.

      The old fellow grinned. "Suppose you come in and have some breakfast. You haven't had any, I suppose?"

      I said I had not.

      "Well, come in and have some."

      After breakfast Mr. Humphreys led the way into the library, and motioned me to take a chair, while he explained what my work was to be. He had been writing a history, or text-book, of ferns — he was an enthusiastic botanist — and wanted it copied for press. The work of rewriting the whole thing legibly was more than he wished to undertake, so he had advertised for an amanuensis.

      After this had been explained to me, Mr. Humphreys started up. "Get your hat, Mr. Wolcott. I want to show you around."

      All through the house and all over the place he took me, and when he got to the farther extremity of the grounds he paused, and pointing to a huge stone house beyond, said, "I'm trying to buy that house; I'm very anxious to get it, but my daughter objects."

      I asked him why she objected.

      "Well, you see, it hasn't been occupied lately, and she says it's gloomy; says it's haunted, and she wouldn't like to live in it."

      "Miss Humphreys can't really believe that to be true," I answered.

      "I don't know whether she does or not. She's away now, but she'll be home to-morrow, and perhaps she'll be more reasonable."

      The next day Mabel arrived. She met me politely, went through the introduction gracefully, and acted as if she had never seen me before. There was not the slightest half-glance of recognition: she evidently intended to consider me a recent acquaintance. With curious inconsistency I could not help being a little disappointed, while at the same time I was immensely relieved. I don't know what I had expected — a start, a blush, just the shy, pleased look of a girl toward an old friend not yet forgotten; or was it haughtiness, hardly veiled anger, disgust? Whatever I had expected, I got nothing at all but pleasant, meaningless words, great politeness, great civility. I had nothing whatever to do with, and could have no interest in, the intimacy that formerly existed between Mabel Humphreys and James W. Wolcott; he was one man, and I was another. And so the days went on, and she was always friendly with her father's copyist.

      Toward the end of July, Ned Humphreys came home, and brought Mr. Butter-Scotch Steele with him. Mr. Steele's baptismal name was William, but he had been rechristened by his friends Butter-Scotch, on account of his fondness for that particular kind of candy.

      Ned was quite a boy, and a capital fellow at that, and he and I soon became firm friends; but Butter-Scotch I loathed. I really don't know why I loathed him so much, unless because there was a rumor afloat that Mabel was making up her mind to renounce the bangs and bangles of a single life, and henceforth stick to Butter-Scotch. Of course this of itself was enough to make me contemplate placing an extraordinarily bent pin on his chair, or converting his overcoat pocket into a repository for a litter of baby kittens. But independently of this rumor, I had a distinct and positive impression that I loathed the man just as he was, whether he ever succeeded in marrying Mabel or not. Of course it was none of my business, but it did seem a pity to stand by and see her become the missing rib, thereby completing the anatomy, of such a molly-coddle.

      One morning I was standing on the piazza — just finishing a very nice cigar Mr. Humphreys had presented me with the day before, with the remark that "he didn't mind a man smoking once in a while, if he smoked tobacco, but he abominated cabbage" — when Mabel came out.

      "Mr. Wolcott," she said, "are you going to be busy for a few minutes?"

      "I think not," I replied. "Mr. Humphreys doesn't want to begin for half an hour yet."

      "Then will you come to the croquet ground, and finish your cigar there?"

      "Certainly," I answered; "with pleasure."

      Over to the croquet ground we strolled, and Mabel sat down on one of the rustic seats. With out preamble of any kind, she began:

      "I know you have a friendly feeling for us all, Mr. Wolcott, and I want to ask your opinion and advice."

      I bowed, for she was unquestionably right about my friendly feeling, but I wondered what was coming.

      She went on: "What do you think of Mr. Steele?"

      Well, that was a poser! What did I think of Butter-Scotch? That he was a fool, of course; but I reflected it wouldn't do to tell her so, particularly if she was going to —   Oh no! it wouldn't do at all.

      "Why do you ask, Miss Humphreys?" "I will tell you frankly. There is a very strong inclination on papa's part to buy the stone house."

      "Yes, I know there is."

      "And I don't want him to."

      "May I ask why not?"

      "Because it's haunted."

      "I don't see how that affects Mr. Steele — he isn't haunted."

      Mabel laughed. "I don't suppose he is. But that isn't what I mean. I want to know if he is courageous enough to go there and see if it really is haunted."

      "Oh, I guess he's pretty brave: he says he is, and Mr. Humphreys thinks so too, I believe."

      "Yes, papa is so enthusiastic over Mr. But— I mean Mr. Steele's kind heart and religious feeling; he thinks he must be a good man, and not easily frightened." She looked at me squarely. "And I want to know if he's a man fully to be trusted —"

      "With untold wealth?"

      "No; to see a ghost."

      "Ah! I see!"

      "You're brave too, aren't you, Mr. Wolcott?"

      "You're very kind to say so, but I assure you there never was a worse coward than I am. I've no courage at all — I'm all brain! Now there's the difference between Mr. Steele and myself."

      Mabel rose. "Yes, I see the difference," she said. "I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Wolcott, for your good advice. I wasn't sure whether he would undertake it. Brain is a good thing, so is courage; I prefer a happy mixture." And with a pleasant little nod she sailed off.

      I never saw until afterward what a comparison I had made — one all courage and no brain, and the other all brain and no courage. I had muddled things badly, that was evident, and the worst-of-it was that she never gave me an opportunity to let her know I had not intended any disrespect to her future liege.

      All this time Sol. Humphreys never ceased talking about buying the stone house. At last Mabel made the proposition that some night we three, Ned, Butter-Scotch, and myself, should go there and stay until morning, and if our report was "no ghosts," she would not say any more against the purchasing scheme; but if anything diabolical or mysterious happened, that her father was to give up the idea. Our consent being asked, we cheerfully gave it, and as one time was as good as another, we decided to make the experiment that night.

      Armed each with a stout stick and a pillow, we advanced upon the haunted dwelling about nine o'clock, and were admitted by the man in charge, whose head-quarters were in an adjoining building, which communicated with the house by a long entry, at the end of which was an iron door. This door was closed and bolted after us, and we were left to make our explorations in our own way.

      I for one did not expect to see anything supernatural, but Mabel's stories were very vivid, and I would have liked to oblige her by seeing something uncanny. We had brought a lantern with us, and Butter-Scotch had very self-sacrificingly taken charge of it. So we ascended the stairs, and made a tour of the upper floors, then descended, and made another tour of the ground-floor and cellar, and Butter-Scotch considered the exploration so thorough that he strongly advocated going home and to bed, and bringing in a sealed verdict, "No ghosts." But we wouldn't hear of it. So, having made sure that the front door was unlocked on the inside, and could be opened instantaneously if the proposed ghost were disposed to be violent, or use language unfit for "ears polite," we made ourselves as comfortable in the hall as the circumstances of no bed and an indefinite ghost would allow.

      Ten o'clock — no ghost. Eleven — not a sound. Eleven-thirty — "Ned, you're snoring."

      "Oh no; I was thinking how —"

      "Great heavens!" whispered Butter-Scotch.

      "Where? where?" we asked, simultaneously.

      Butter-Scotch wiped a moth off his cheek.

      "I thought you saw something," Ned said to him, irritably.

      "He went in my eye. I guess you'd cry out if a bug went in your eye."

      "That's all right, Scotchy. You're game, eh, old man?"

      "This is sheer nonsense," Mr. Steele explained.

      Whirr-rr-rr, fizz, thupp!

      Butter-Scotch yelled, and started up.

      "Sit down. Don't you know a June-bug when you hear one?"

      "Was it, indeed?" and Butter-Scotch wiped his forehead.

      Suddenly there was a crash somewhere in the house.

      "By George!" gasped Ned, "we're in for it, boys, and don't you forget it!"

      I don't know how long we waited, but then it began again — first a sneeze, then a hissing sound, then a pail rolling down stairs, followed by an assortment of dust-pans and fire-irons.

      This was first-class. After the storm ceased, Butter-Scotch, in a committee of one, proposed that we should alter the verdict to "ghosts emphatically," and go home. It was entertaining, but, to tell the truth, he was sleepy.

      In a few minutes there was another crash, and we saw something white on the stairs, slowly and solemnly approaching. As it neared the bottom, it raised an arm; a low moan came from it, and a rasping sound of a by no means cheerful character.

      Butter-Scotch made for the door, and in his excitement pushed against it instead of pulling, so he couldn't get out. The ghost, seeing our fright, uttered a shriek, and came swiftly toward us.

      This was too much for flesh and blood to bear, and Butter-Scotch yelled, "Murder! thieves! fire!" frantic with horror, and we all three pulled and pushed, beside ourselves with fear.

      Just as the ghost had nearly reached us, Ned pulled the door open, and there was a crash and a rush, and before I knew what had happened, the door was shut to with a bang, and I was left in darkness in the hall, with the knowledge that the beastly ghost was where it could touch me if it wanted to. A second of silence, and then a voice hissed, "Cowards!" I indorsed that opinion heartily, but the others were greater cowards than I was: I wouldn't have kicked the light out of the lantern, or shut the door on them.

      There was a yawn, and then the thing said, "Oh my!"

      I plucked up my spirits a little. The ghost had sense enough to be sleepy, and I thought I could stand a little talk, if it would only keep hands off. Possibly it wanted to find the door, for it came straight toward me. But the knob wasn't where the phantom thought it ought to be, and the seeking hand rested for about two seconds on my nose. The touch gave me courage; it was warm, soft, and pleasant as a woman's. I stretched out my arms, and grasped the phantom. It shrieked and started, but I was strong, and the ghost was solid, so it didn't get away. I didn't feel afraid of it then; on the contrary, it seemed afraid of me.

      "Dear ghost, sweet ghost," I said, "I won't hurt you."

      The answer came tremblingly and low: "What are you saying? Who sent you?"

      "Why, my darling ghost," I said, "the lady that's going to be Mrs. Butter-Scotch."

      "How do you know she is?"

      "Oh, I know well enough. You must be a smart ghost not to know that!"

      "She doesn't love him."

      "Oh yes, she does. My sweet little phantom, you're entirely mistaken. Come, I'll see if I can't light the lantern, if that insane booby hasn't smashed it all to pieces in getting out."

      "Let me go, please," the ghost begged, in a very polite manner; and as it spoke, the words sounded to me very much as from a human voice disguised, and yet I couldn't see for the life of me how anything human could have got into the house after we came in, or how anything human could have made such an everlasting row, and rattled its bones so unpleasantly. But the ghost's hands had flesh on them. My curiosity was aroused, so I said, "No, I can't let you go."

      "It's wrong — hugging me, when you love another."

      "Whom do I love?"

      "Mrs. Butter-Scotch, of course. I know all about it."

      "You do, eh? Then I suppose you know how it all happened?"

      "Yes, of course I do."

      "Do you know why I stopped?"

      "Because you hadn't money enough to ask her to marry you."

      "You're perfectly right, my dear little ghost; but neither you nor I know whether she'd have married me even if I had happened to have plenty of money. I wish you'd tell me that."

      "I won't do anything of the kind. I'm perfectly surprised at myself for talking to a mortal so long. Good-by, man. Go back to the Humphreyses, and tell them what you have seen. If the old man buys this house, won't I make it hot for him! Good-by, mortal."

      But I wouldn't let go of the ghost's arm.

      "Please let me go now," the phantom beseeched.

      A bright idea came to me. I said: "Can I trust you? Is a ghost's word good for anything?"

      With great dignity it answered: "Yes; I never lie."

      "All right. If you'll promise to meet me to-morrow evening under the old apple-tree on Mr. Humphreys's place at ten o'clock, I'll let you go." And as I released my hold, the ghost seemed to vanish away, and I opened the door, and went out. My senses were dazed in the open air; the evening had been so strange, so almost suspicious, that I could not fathom it all at once. Besides, I had allowed the ghost to go before it had given the promise to meet me again. I remembered my stupidity with regret, but somehow I felt the ghost would consider the promise as having been given, and be at the trysting-place. At the house they had given me up for lost, and were discussing all manner of plans for my rescue, and Ned was on the point of coming for me alone, as Mr. Steele could not be persuaded to enter that house again until daylight. However, the thing was settled, and Mr. Humphreys accepted our report unquestionably, but with great regret, and the next morning Mabel was informed of the result. At last the evening came, and we were on the piazza. Mabel had retired with a headache, and the rest of us smoked our cigars and followed our own thoughts in silence. As it neared ten, I arose leisurely, and strolled off to the old apple-tree. I had been there but a few minutes when I saw a white figure approaching as if from the adjoining place, and it came straight to me, and stopped at my side.

      I lifted my hat. "Good-evening," I said.

      The phantom responded with a neat little ghostly courtesy. "Mortal, I never tell a lie," it said.

      "Will you shake hands? Truly a ghost's word can be believed."

      The phantom gave me its hand, but after I had held it a decent length of time, tried to regain possession of it.

      "Does the old gentleman believe?" asked the ghost.

      "Yes; it's all right — he won't buy the house now. You can remain alone in it in undisturbed possession."

      "I don't want to stay alone in it."

      "Well, my sweet phantom, I don't see how you're going to fix it. Haven't you got any relatives to come and help you be gay?"

      "No, none."

      "That's bad. I know the dust-pan and fire-iron business is jolly, and then it does sound awfully cheerful to have pails rolling down stairs; but it's like playing billiards — gets monotonous if you haven't any one to play with."

      The ghost sighed.

      "What's that for?" I inquired. "Don't you like being a ghost?"

      "No, not a bit."

      "Dear me! Would you like to be an ordinary common mortal person?"

      "Yes."

      "My! And get married?"

      "Yes, I guess so I don't know."

      "Well, I'm very fond of you, dear little ghost."

      "I don't believe you. You're fond of somebody else."

      "Well, well; you told me that before, and I don't deny it; but, my sweet little phantom, she don't care two cents for me now."

      "How do you know?"

      "Oh, I know it very well."

      "You're wrong. Why don't you go and ask her?"

      "I'm not going to insult her."

      "Do you call that an insult?"

      "Yes — from one in my position. Sweet ghost," I said, coming nearer, "let's make believe you're my angel," putting my arms around her, and drawing her to me.

      "Then you don't love her?"

      "On the contrary, it's because I love her so much that I want to make believe you're Miss Mabel."

      The ghost submitted with a good grace, but forgot her assumed ghostliness. "James!" she said, and the voice carried me back two years, and my darling was revealed to me.

      "Mabel, Mabel," I said, "what is this? Does it mean you love me?"

      "Yes."

      "But why did you play such a prank on us all?"

      "I knew you still loved me, but would never say so, and, besides, I wanted a little fun."

      "Bless you, it was fun, but you might have been hurt."

      "Oh no," she laughed; "I wasn't afraid. The others were so brave, and you were such a coward — all brain and no courage, you know."

      A month later I was a clerk on a good salary, and six months later Mabel and I were married. But the secret of our wooing in the stone house and under the apple-tree was never told, and from that time forth I had no fear of ghosts — my own particular precious little ghost was my shield and my protection.