Some years ago business took me down to the little town of Temsbury, and as I expected to have to stay some time, my uncle John offered to lend me his house there, as it was standing empty. The said uncle John, whose other name is Hobbs — you must know him well enough by name, Mr Alderman Hobbs, M. P. for south Hogshire — is extremely fond of the river, on which, in spite of increasing age and embonpoint, he skulls and punts and fishes, in a manner that does equal honour to his head and heart. Having a holy horror of houseboats and steam-launches, like the fine old sportsman he is, he has found it necessary to have a pied-a-terre by the river somewhere; and it was this that led him to purchase the Old House at Temsbury when it recently came. into the market, on the death of old Mr Kinderton. The previous summer, however, having been rainy, and his time being much occupied with his parliamentary duties, my uncle had hardly ever made use of his new purchase. He was delighted with the opportunity of lending it to me, as my professional knowledge — I am a civil engineer — might enable me to be of some use to him in improving the condition of the drainage, with which he was not quite satisfied. Now, if there is one subject in which I take more interest in than another, it is drains. Prosaic, of course, you will say; but the fact is, that no outsider can understand the absolute enthusiasm that one gets for this kind of work. It is all very well to talk about architecture and painting, and all that; but to me there is nothing so artistically perfect as a good set of drains. Of course, it is not a thing that you come across every day, but that only makes it more noble and precious when you do find it. I was consequently much pleased with my uncle's offer, and promised to do all I could to set everything to rights. Everybody who has ever been at Temsbury — and that means almost everybody — knows the Old House, though they may not know its name: it is the large red-brick building with a pediment and a white porch, standing a little back from the road on your left-hand side as you go down to the bridge. It is a fine old place, believed to have been built by Sir Christopher Wren, and contains carvings by Grinling Gibbons, and all kinds of treasures for those who can appreciate them — has a garden with a terrace on the river, and a ghost. The possession of the last mentioned curiosity, however, was not generally appreciated.

      Of course the great old house was much too large for a solitary unprotected male. Accordingly, only one of two rooms had been prepared for me — the dining-room, a pleasant little morning-room to serve for sitting and working in, and a splendid bedroom on the first floor looking out on the river. I was shown over it all by an old woman of pleasant appearance, who had been put in there, with her daughter, by my uncle to look after the house when he was away. I think she was an old nurse of his, or something of that kind. My own impression is that my uncle's early upbringing must have been a work of considerable difficulty: he seemed to have such a number of pensioners who had acted in some capacity connected with it. The old woman was inclined to be apologetic about the bedroom she had prepared for me, saying she had had so little notice, and that none of the other rooms were fit to sleep in: to be sure, it was the best room in the house, and she didn't believe there was any truth in the stories that were told about it.

      "Why," I asked, "is this the haunted room?"

      "Well, sir, it is the one where the people says the noises are; but of course a gentleman like yourself don't care for none of them stories."

      I was not so sure about that. I had no great anxiety to be introduced to a ghost, supposing such things to exist. I made an attempt at an incredulous laugh, and assured Mrs Creed that it didn't matter; but I was somewhat uncomfortable all the same.

      However, I got a very good dinner, which restored my spirits, and turned-to afterwards at a bit of work I had to do, till all thoughts of the haunted room went out of my head. After going through a series of very abstruse calculations, I tried to refresh myself with a novel, and fell fast asleep in my chair. Some people say that a short sleep in your chair refreshes you, but for my part I always find that I wake up sleepier than before. At any rate, all I was good for when I woke up this time was to tumble up-stairs and into bed as soon as possible, and there I fell fast asleep again. When I awoke next, which I suppose must have been between one and two o'clock, it was with the consciousness that I was no longer alone. The doors of what I had supposed to be a great press at the other end of the room stood wide open, disclosing a small secret room built in the thickness of the wall. Out of this room now came forth a figure, — a lady dressed in a strange antiquated fashion, a long loose blue dress, of the kind which I believe is called a sacque, and with a great tower of a head-dress, carrying a baby in her arms, and singing softly to it as she walked to and fro, without taking the least notice of me. After the first minutes of utter bewilderment, I began to be conscious that this must be the ghost that people spoke of; certainly it was not a substantial living creature. I cannot deny that I felt a curious kind of thrill at the idea that I was actually face to face with a disembodied spirit, even going so far as a general tendency to shivering and chattering of teeth; but these feelings I succeeded in repressing. One thing which conduced greatly to strengthen my resolution was the moral impossibility of getting out of bed to run away. I have always been brought up in the strictest principles of propriety, and I could not take a step which would be an outrage to the feelings of a lady, even of a ghost lady. Obviously it was my duty as a gentleman to remain quietly in bed. The sense of duty is encouraging, and I began to feel quite composed, even with a soothing tendency to grumble; for, as I put it to myself, while my conduct at the present juncture is in the highest degree creditable, it serves to show, at the same time, how entirely unjustifiable is the conduct of a lady ghost in haunting a gentleman's bedroom. Comforted as I was with these reflections, it was somewhat disturbing to find, on looking up again, that the lady's eyes were fixed upon mine, though with no particularly terrible or malevolent expression. I returned her gaze as steadily as I could, and the lady, after a while, broke into a smile, and said in a pleasant but somewhat affected voice, "You are not afraid of me?"

      "N-no, madam, I don't think I am," I said, rather hesitatingly. "You are not quite sure?" said the apparition kindly. "But I ask you the question with a serious purpose; and you must answer truthfully. Are you really not afraid of me?"

      This was rather an awkward question, as the truth is that I was still rather uncomfortable, but I felt it must be answered in the affirmative. I had read ghost-stories, and I saw that the time was coming when the ghost would confide in me respecting the family papers behind the wainscoting or the treasure buried in the garden. Under these circumstances I determined that I would not be afraid. After all, I said to myself, what is there to be afraid of? The lady, who was anxiously awaiting my answer, evidently meant me no harm; her appearance was in no way terrible — indeed her face, though sadly thin and worn, showed traces of great beauty. There was nothing but the irrational horror of something that has died and yet lives — a condition of existence, by the way, in which we formally express our belief every Sunday. So I firmly and confidently replied, "I am not afraid of you."

      "Are you quite, quite certain?" repeated the lady anxiously. "Remember to whom you are speaking, and do not say so unless you are perfectly sure. I am a ghost, you know, a spirit. I have been dead and buried these hundred and fifty years. Are you still quite sure you are not afraid?"

      Repressing what I felt to be an absurd inclination to shudder, I replied, "I am perfectly sure."

      The lady gave a sigh of relief.

      "You speak confidently, sir," she said, "and I believe truly. Heaven knows there is little enough to fear in me, yet you are the first that I have seen since I have haunted this apartment who could say so much. Your courage shall not go unrewarded. To you I feel that I can deliver the precious charge which I can no longer retain. Are you willing to receive it?"

      "Madam," I replied, "you do me too much honour. I shall be proud to render you any assistance in my power."

      The lady looked at me very seriously. "It is a very great trust that I am about to impose upon you; and though it cannot fail to bring you great joy and happiness, it is one not to be lightly undertaken. Yet I cannot think I have chosen badly. You are young and inexperienced, but you seem to be kind and honest. You are sure that you are ready to receive this charge?"

      I bowed in assent as well as in acknowledgment of the compliment, which only my duty as a faithful historian induces me to transcribe. At the same time, I may mention that it is an extremely difficult thing, when one is in bed, to bow to a lady with any degree of propriety, not to say grace. As for the trust, I decided it must be treasure, which I was probably intended to apply to some particular purpose.

      "A hundred and fifty years ago," continued the apparition, "this poor child," meaning the baby she carried, "died here in my arms of privation and misery when I was hiding her from those who would have been her ruthless murderers. For that long term she has, according to our laws, remained such as she was in life; but now that the hundred and fifty years are gone, she will begin to grow older and bigger as if she were still a child of this world. Such is our law. It is not in my power to watch over her in the future; other duties call me else where. Already I have often been compelled to absent myself, and now I can only hope to be able to visit her at long intervals. To you, then, generous young man, I intrust my dearest hopes, the care of my beloved daughter. It will be your duty and your pleasure alike to watch her grow in strength and in beauty ——"

      "But, good heavens, madam," I cried in alarm, "you don't mean that ——"

      "To your kind and watchful guardianship — for kind and watchful I am sure that you will be — I hereby resign her. Under your care she will thrive better than exposed to all the trouble and hardships that must fall to my lot."

      "But pardon me," I interposed, "I really cannot for a moment ——"

      "Give me no thanks," said the phantom, in a stately manner; they are not needed. The task that is before you is no light one, and the obligation is not on your side alone."

      "I should think it wasn't," I replied, indignantly. "I had no intention of thanking you. I cannot entertain the idea of such a thing for a moment. I ——"

      "You have passed your word," said the lady, coldly (she had now replaced the baby in a cradle in the secret room, and was hushing it to sleep). "and it cannot be retracted. Fear not! she will bring. happiness and prosperity to you. In after years she will be the joy and pride of her guardian." "But I won't be her guardian," I shouted, in desperation. "I can't, — I don't know how; it is quite out of my power."

      "She is called Euphemia," continued the lady, without noticing my words — "the Lady Euphemia Crancelin," and she stepped back to the door of the secret room to take what was evidently intended to be a farewell look at the baby. I could only look on helplessly; I think if I had not been in bed, I might have argued the point, but it was this very circumstance which put me at such a disadvantage all the time.

      "Farewell, my child," she continued. "Farewell, kind friend. Be assured that my daughter will well reward your care; but remember, also, that the gravest consequences may follow any remissness or neglect. Once more, farewell!"

      And she disappeared.

II.

      I don't quite know what happened next: I was left in a kind of dazed condition, and I think I must just have gone to sleep because I didn't know what else to do. Anyhow, the next thing I was conscious of was waking up in the morning cheerful and comfortable, and utterly oblivious of ghosts and babies. The sun was shining brightly into the room, and I felt the kind of exhilaration that a fine morning naturally brings to a young and healthy man, untroubled by duns, in good training, and with a fair but not excessive day's work before him. I got up and dressed quickly, and, having nearly finished my toilet, was looking out of the window at the river below, when I heard a slight sound behind me, and on turning round, saw the doors of the secret room fly open of their own accord. In a moment the whole thing came back to my memory, the ghost and the baby and the whole scene of the night before. The cheery, hopeful prospects of a moment before were replaced by a sickening feeling of discouragement and disgust. The sun went out like a candle; the river was muddy and smelled nasty; the temperature of the room fell at least ten degrees. I daresay this will be considered a very disagreeable way of regarding the matter; but it is not easy to realise the feelings of a man who suddenly finds himself placed in the supremely absurd and embarrassing position of guardian to a baby ghost.

      There was the little room exactly as I had seen it the night before, and the cradle in the middle of it. After some hesitation, I determined to go and see with my own eyes in broad daylight whether there really was a baby there or not after all, perhaps it had all been a dream; perhaps I had not really received the extraordinary charge that I fancied the ghost had intrusted to me. Alas! My illusions on this point were soon dispelled. As I reached the door of the secret room, a curious, inarticulate sound reached my ears something between a crow and a chuckle, but indubitably proceeding from the throat of that blessed baby. While I was yet hesitating whether I should relieve my mind by substituting a different participle, I heard the old housekeeper's footstep in the passage outside, and at the same moment the folding-doors banged to again within an inch of my nose.

      "Breakfast is ready, sir," said Mrs. Creed; and glad of any interruption, I hastily followed her down-stairs.

      Later on, when I went about my work, I mentally carried that baby about with me everywhere. What was I to do? All my hopes of advancement and success in life seemed irremediably blighted. What career can be open to a man who has always to be dragging a fine young ghost about with him? Who will give him employment? People don't bargain for that kind of thing. Besides, what was I expected to do in my capacity of guardian? For, after all, I was guardian to the blessed little nuisance, and I should have to behave myself as such. I am a conscientious man, I believe, and not at all given to shirking my obligations, but really the task of bringing up a ghost baby was rather too much for me. I caught myself wondering whether the Foundling Hospital would take it in, while at other times the name of Dr Barnardo would raise a momentary hope; but I doubt whether even that kind-hearted and energetic gentleman could do much with a baby ghost.

      Such ideas I soon dismissed. Setting aside the difficulty of carriage, — and I know that I should be perfectly unable to transfer the Baby to any place where it didn't want to go, even if it proved possible to move it at all, — setting this difficulty aside, I felt it to be my duty to watch over its infancy myself. It was to me that the mother had confided her child. I tried to persuade myself that I had a noble task before me — to bring up a ghost in the way it should go; but in any case, it was very difficult to know how to set about it. While I revolved these schemes about the Baby's future, I had made little progress in personal acquaintance with it. When the folding-doors flew open — and they always did in the morning, and often at night — I would go up to the cradle and look into it. At first I could only see something very shadowy and indistinct, but it gradually became clearer, and after the first week I could make out its little features plainly enough. I don't know whether it was pretty. All the babies I have seen yet, appear to me to be very much alike in that respect; but it seemed a nice baby enough. It crowed and chuckled, and held out its little arms to me, when I came in, though it was a good fortnight before I mustered up courage to say "Good Morning, Baby," which I felt politeness required of me. Then I used to stand for a few minutes, not exactly knowing what to do next, while the Baby crowed away like a little bantam, and then I would say, Well, good-bye for the present, Baby," and go out, locking the doors after me and taking away the key — an entirely useless precaution, by the way. It generally appeared quite satisfied, and at all events it very rarely cried, which was what I was most afraid of. On the whole, I judged it to be a good-natured, easy-going sort of infant, whom it would not be difficult to get on with — if it was a necessity of fate that I was to be saddled with a baby of one kind or another. Later on, indeed, we got to be very good friends, Euphemia and I. I felt it to be a great advance the day I first addressed it as Euphemia, and it was greatly delighted itself. It was always pleased to see me. I couldn't go and see it very often on account of my work, and also to keep the servants from finding out anything about it. Mrs Creed and her daughter had already spoken several times about the noises that were heard in the cup-board; but fortunately, though they could hear it cry — or rather crow, for it hardly ever did cry — it was quite invisible to them. I knew this, because Mrs Creed once came into my room when I had carried the cradle out on to the hearthrug in my own room, — for the Baby always enjoyed seeing the fire, and I was afraid of trying to carry it alone, as it looked so very unsubstantial. Mrs Creed came in suddenly — which she had no business to do — and though she was startled at the sight of the cradle, she certainly saw nothing in it. The cradle, I said, I had found in the lumber-room, and brought down stairs to examine it; and, indeed, it was a very curious piece of old carved-oak work, and very well worth examining.

      As I have said, we got on very well for the present, but I was very uneasy in my mind about the future. In the first place, I could not stay in Temsbury for ever; and what was the Baby to do when I had to go away? It is true that my difficulties upon this point were soon removed, when, being suddenly called away to London one day, I found, on going to my chambers in the evening, the Baby calmly reposing upon the chest of drawers in my bedroom. It seemed a rather uncomfortable resting-place, so I managed to improvise a kind of cradle out of my portmanteau, after turning all the things out. To this the Baby managed to transport itself somehow, and, on all future occasions when I had to leave Temsbury, this portmanteau served as its resting-place, and it seemed very comfortable. While, however, some of my uneasiness was removed by this discovery, it increased my anxieties for the future in another direction; a bachelor who is invariably accompanied by a baby, of which he is absolutely incapable of giving what would be considered a satisfactory account, is, undoubtedly, a suspicious character. It is true that the Baby was invisible to Mrs Creed; but would it be the same thing with Alice Raynsley? I don't remember, by the way, whether I mentioned our engagement: she is Alice Morrison now, I am happy to say (my name is Robert Morrison). What would Alice think of my being in possession of an unnecessary infant like this? It was a very serious question.

      I had found out all about who she was. "The Lady Euphemia Crancelin," her mother said. Well, it required little trouble to find out the family of Crancelin, sometimes Earls of Ruetown in Allandale, in any book on extinct peerages. Hugh, eighth Earl, it appeared, married Hilda Mailcote, the heiress of a Cumberland family, who had an old border-feud with the Crancelins, — a runaway match, evidently, bitterly resented and relentlessly avenged by the lady's father, Sir John Mailcote. The Earl had been implicated in the Earl of Mar's rising in 1715, and always lived under suspicion after it, till he was finally entrapped by his amiable father-in-law into an overt act, amounting to high treason, for which he was tried and condemned, and suffered the extreme penalty of the law. The Countess, with her child, had followed him to London, where he was tried and executed, and afterwards, fearing her father's vengeance, took refuge in the house at Temsbury, the possession of a trusted friend. The house was entered and searched by her father's myrmidons, and she herself was carried away, it is believed, to her father's house in the north, but she was never heard of again. The child had also disappeared. I had very little doubt that this child was the Baby who had been intrusted to my charge. Her name was not mentioned in any of the books I consulted, so that I was led to conclude that she must have been christened after death, as she was so extremely young at the time.

      The discovery of her proper position in the world had suggested to me the idea that, later on, she might be made a ward in Chancery; but I found several objections to this idea. The families of Mailcote and Crancelin being, as far as I could make out, both extinct, and their estates having passed into other hands, the Baby would probably find some difficulty in making out her title to any property, even if her father's attainder left her anything to claim. It is true that I believe a child could be made a ward of Chancery if I paid in a certain deposit myself; but there still remained a doubt whether the Lord Chancellor would be willing to take a ghost baby to his bosom for any consideration. Nor did I see any reason to believe that his lordship had any more experience in the education of little ghosts than I had myself. Yet there were strong objections to my undertaking its education at home. I was quite certain that Alice would not approve of it. Besides, we might come to have a nursery of our own some day, and it was difficult to foresee how Euphemia would get on with other children. I thought it extremely doubtful whether a Baby, who had been a ghost for a hundred and fifty years, would exercise a beneficial influence. At one time I thought of consulting the Society of Psychical Research; but I was afraid that if they could actually lay their hands on a real ghost, they would want to dissect it, or put it under a microscope, or something of that kind. On the other hand, they might not be able even to see it. Clearly there was little help to be expected in my strange task from living man.

III.

      Under these circumstances, I began to consider whether I might not seek for aid among those who were not living. Ours is a country which simply teems with haunted houses, and it would be a reproach indeed if, in our civilized United Kingdom, there could not be found one ghost ready to hold out his hand to succour a helpless child. One of my oldest friends was at that time secretary to a society occupied in researches into the supernatural, and through his agency I determined to put forth such an appeal to the ghosts of Great Britain and Ireland as, I felt sure, would meet with a ready response. All I had to do was to find out some respectable old ghost who would either take charge of the Baby himself, or seek out the mother and oblige her to take it back.

      With this idea, I represented myself as an inquirer desirous of throwing more light on such subjects, and not afraid of carrying out my researches in person. The society accepted my proposals with eagerness, and pointed out to me a glorious enterprise which was waiting ready to my hand. A daring man was wanted to watch for the ghost in Grimleigh Manor, a fine old house belonging to the Duke of Birmingham, which had not been inhabited for some time owing to the general terror caused by the apparition.

      I closed with this offer at once. The Duke, who was to pay all expenses, drew out the programme of my operations, and one of his gamekeepers was appointed to be the companion of my watch.

      I will not trouble my readers with all the negotiations and arrangements to be gone through before the eventful evening when Giles, the keeper, and I crept in as secretely as possible by the back door of the manor to begin our adventure. It was a fine autumn night, with a bright moon shining, so that there was no necessity for artificial light, of which I was very glad, for I am not sure that I should have liked to face the ghost in the dark, and yet I was required to observe the strictest secrecy. The Grimleigh ghost was an armed knight, presumably some early member of the Duke's family, who haunted a long gallery with a little room at the end of it, through which he used to walk. This room I had selected as my point of observation. In a dark corner I posted myself a little after eleven o'clock, the apparition being usually seen at about midnight, and gave my companion instructions to remain at the bottom of the staircase, and on no account to come up one step unless I called him — a course which seemed to be in perfect accordance with honest Giles's own inclinations. I don't suppose I waited more than an hour or so, but it seemed about five times as much. The thought of what the Baby would be doing was what principally occupied me, though naturally, when my thoughts were a wandering, they often reverted to Alice Raynsley, and I wished that Baby had never been born. But what was the good of wishing? The Baby was there, and I couldn't get rid of it. Anyhow it would not be in my way that night.

      At last I heard a heavy foot-step coming along the gallery; and I cannot say that I was comfortable when I first heard it. The door was open, but from my corner I could not see anything of the ghost till it came into the room. I had been sure that it would be conscious of my presence, but it was not an armed figure such as had been described to me merely came into the room, walked to the opposite wall, and then back again without heeding me or giving me a chance of speaking. It occurred to me that the figure was unusually heavy and awkward, its armour was very substantial, and its demeanour by no means awe-inspiring. I rushed forward as it stalked out again, and in the long gallery, lighted up as it was by the moon, I saw, to my utter amazement, the form of Euphemia, apparently hanging in mid-air in some extraordinary fashion of its own, — I never professed to really understand that Baby. I was not the only one who saw it. With a yell of terror the ghost dropped the lance and shield it carried and turned to rush back to the room, but, at sight of me, made a bolt for the staircase.

      "Stop that man!" I shouted, and Giles came up quickly at call; but the ghost no sooner saw him than it gave another scream, and fell down apparently insensible. We dragged the apparition into the hall, and on taking off his helmet and armour, discovered as common and dull-looking a young boor as one would wish to see, now just coming to himself, but still evidently in a state of frantic terror.

      "Mark Tester, that is," said Giles coolly, as he tied the ghost's hands and feet, "Well, sir, this is a go!"

      It was. We got the police over from the neighbouring town, and instituted a thorough search. The house had been taken possession of by a fraternity of bad characters, living chiefly on burglary and poaching, with an occasional spice of highway robbery. Two or three of them were caught returning to their rendezvous before the discovery got wind. A number more were indicated in the statement of Mark Tester, who turned Queen's evidence, but only about six were brought to trial in all. The secrecy we had observed proved extremely fortunate, as the gang were perfectly unsuspicious, and that night had left only their greenest hand to look after the stolen property stored there, and personate the harmless, necessary ghost, who had been their surest defence. I was kept down there for some time to help in the investigations, and had a room prepared for me in the house, when the Baby turned up again at once, evidently much satisfied with itself, and in the best of tempers. She was always that, though, poor Euphemia! How she came to Grimleigh that night, how she knew what to do, and how or where she spent the night when she was not suspended in mid-air like Mahomet's coffin, are questions that I do not feel called upon to solve.

      "The Grimleigh Ghost," was the heading of many an article in the newspapers of that time, as I daresay many of the readers will remember. For a time I heard of nothing but praises of my own courage and sagacity — praises which I felt I did not deserve, as it was the Baby who had done it all. Commissions to examine into other apparitions poured in from various quarters, and I felt that I could not keep up my reputation without accepting some of them. If I had been in my sober senses, probably I should have remained satisfied with the laurels I had already gained, but I was certainly a little intoxicated with all the praises that were showered upon me. Besides, the Duke of Birmingham had forced upon me a very handsome cheque in return for my services, which I had not felt justified in refusing. I had done him a great service — Grimleigh Manor is his favorite residence now — or rather the Baby and I had; and if I could not have managed it without the Baby, no more would the Baby have ever taken any steps in the matter without me. Moreover, as I had all the inconveniences of being Euphemia's guardian, it was only right that I should get what good I could out of it.

      These considerations, joined to a fresh success in discovering a really transparent imposture which had frightened some innocent rustics in an out-of-the-way Buckinghamshire village, led me, after long reflection and hesitation, to set up in business as a professional ghost-seeker. I announced myself as possessing exceptional capacities for discovering imposture in the case of supposed apparitions. I did not say that I relied upon Euphemia's assistance, because I felt that any mention of her would merely serve to disturb the public mind. My scale of fees was extremely moderate; expenses were of course to be paid, and board and lodging free during investigation. The other charges varied; so much was charged for the satisfactory exposure of a fraud, so much less for formally testifying to the existence of a ghost, and in cases where I was unable to make a decisive statement one way or another, nothing at all. The plan succeeded wonderfully; fresh orders arrived. in shoals, and in a month's time I was in full career of business, with really more commissions than I could execute.

      Of course I exercised a certain discretion. I could do nothing without the Baby, and I never could think of taking that guileless infant into objectionable company. "Fullest references given and required" was on all my prospectuses, and I was quite as careful about the respectability of the ghost in question as of the family who owned it. Thus, for instance, I refused a very liberal offer from the Earl of Finsbury, who wished me to visit his country seat in Essex, where an ancestor of his 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 ghost-seeker." 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? Find your orange too sour? Take some sugar with it."

      "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 extremely 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.

      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. Not knowing exactly what to do, I coughed once or twice in the hope of attracting her attention again; 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 myself 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 rather 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 child. I have tried to do my duty in that position, but I have always known that I was entirely unfitted for it, and it has always been entirely against my will."

      "You wish, then, to be relieved from the guardianship of my child? It is well, sir. Such as I do not require to thrust their favours upon those who are unwilling to receive them. But remember, the prosperity which this charge would have brought you is lost to you for ever."

      "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 her — and 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 my duty to try and do something for Euphemia.

      "Madam," I said at last, "I hope you will reflect before taking so serious a step. The Baby — I mean the Lady Euphemia — appears to me to be a young lady of great promise, and I think something better could be done for her. If you will allow me to say so, I doubt whether the profession of a ghost is one that a conscientious mother should bring up her child to."

      "It is all that is left to us," said the lady, sadly; "what else can we do?"

      "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 manner. 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, thinking the opportunity a good one for laying down certain moral reflections which had occurred to me during my ghost-seeking career, "let me endeavour to explain to you, Lady Ruetown, the ideas which have been suggested to me by my own personal experiences, and which may prove of great value to yourself and your — a — companions in misfortune. Judging from what I have seen and heard, it is — a — my deliberate opinion ——"

      I broke off abruptly, as I became suddenly conscious that my audience was gone, vanished in a moment without even taking any leave of me, their benefactor, as I felt myself to be. I did, for a moment, see the Baby waving its little hand to me, but it did not show the least desire to stay. It is a pity, for I think I could have drawn attention to some facts which would have been of value to the ghost-world; but it was not my fault.

      When I come to think of it, I very much doubt whether the Baby was ever satisfied with the arrangement by which she was put under my care. I think she must have seen the absurdity of the position from the very beginning; but being a Baby of strong character, she determined to adapt herself to the circumstances, and certainly she succeeded wonderfully well. Poor Euphemia! I sometimes think I should like to see her again; but never from that time to this have I — or any other person, I believe — set eyes upon either mother or daughter.

      There is hardly anything more to tell. Though the great obstacle to our happiness was removed by the Baby's disappearance, it was only a very short time ago that Alice Raynsley and I were married. I have told her the story, and I am bound to admit that she does not believe it. She thinks, however, that other people may perhaps; at any rate, whether they do or not, I can assure them that the above is a true and faithful account of the circumstances which attended my extraordinary and probably unique position as guardian to a ghost baby.