Robert Graham was a young man who wanted to be original. Most young men under thirty have the same desire, so I do not pretend to hint that he was anything out of the common because he was passing through this phase of experience.

He had been articled to a solicitor, but, tiring of the law, he determined to leave the quiet little country town where he had been born and reared, and go to London. His plan, moreover, was to forsake law for literature, and while St. Minver would lose by his departure, the metropolis would have one more daring life struggling in its midst. He accordingly left St. Minver, forsook the law, and went to London.

In the early days of his law career he had learnt shorthand, and it was this expression of his originality which kept him from starving when he came to the metropolis. After some weeks of weary endeavor to find a publisher. It was his knowledge of shorthand which enabled him to buy bread and cheese. He was employed as a reporter for two or three papers, small local journals which are unknown to London as a whole, and yet which are bought by the people in the vicinity in which they are published. By this means he managed to earn from fifteen to twenty shillings a week, and as a consequence paid his landlady with fair regularity. Indeed, that lady confessed that on the whole he was the best paying "littery gent she'd hever 'ed."

When he had been in London a year, he did another original thing, he joined a bachelors' club. Of course this act was right off the beaten track, and Bob had a sort of feeling that he had done something worthy of note. The one rule of the club was that no member should have anything to do with women, and directly anyone should break this rule he should be expelled.

For a year Bob conformed loyally to this. Indeed, he scarcely spoke to his landlady, and as for other members of the fair sex he never even noticed them. The members of the Bachelors' Club met as often as they could in each other's rooms, and each in turn paid for a supper. They smoked a good deal, gossiped a good deal, and abused publishers' readers unmercifully. For nearly all the members of the club were "gentlemen connected with the press." And each of these had a desire "to bring out a great book, something that would startle the age."

Bob wrote a good deal, wrote on every imaginable subject, and sent his work to various editors of all sorts, but without success. His work was "quite suitable." He got sick of publishers' forms and editorial communications, but still he toiled steadily on, and wrote with all the regularity of a leader writer, sometimes, with as much brilliancy. In vain, however.

He criticised editors and publishers' readers a good deal, and yet in his heart he felt that he got all he deserved. Original his work might be, but he never loved the things he had written. Memher of the Bachelors' Club as he was he wrote love stories, and often married the hero to the heroine; but somehow his own heart never responded to the words they said to each other. Indeed, he was obliged to confess to himself that he didn't know how to tell the story of a man's love for a maid.

About this time he was invited to a country home to spend Christmas, and although he felt he was doing nothing original by accepting the invitation, he promised to comply with the evident wish of the sender. He was indebted for the invitation to the following order of events: First, a young man. who was a banker's clerk, occupied two rooms in the house where Bob occupied one. This banker's clerk was called Herbert Walker, who, in writing to his father, told him about Bob. Herbert Walker's father was fond of his son, and being desirous of pleasing him, decided to invite the young man to spend Christmas with them, provided Bob were, a decent fellow. Accordingly, one day when Mr. Walker senior was in London he took steps to see Bob, and on talking together it came out that Bob's father had, years ago, been a friend of Mr. Walker.

"I suppose no women will be at your house?" said Bob to Herbert, when they were talking together shortly after the former had accepted the invitation.

"Well, I shall be obliged to write again and tell your father that I cannot manage it."

"Well, as it happens, no women will be at the house for the three days you've agreed to come to us, except an old housekeeper and the servants. You'll not object to these, I suppose?"

"My cousin and two or three of her companions are coming the day after Christmas day, but as you say you are returning that morning, you'll not see them."

"Yes, I think so. Of course it's not what you call a mansion, but it's a fine old country house for all that. Father got it very cheaply because it is reported to be haunted."

"Fact, I assure you. The story goes that two or three generations ago the only daughter of the then owner was killed there."

"Well, it was in this way: A yeoman who lived close by wanted her very badly indeed. It is said he was crazy about her, and she refused to have anything to say to him. Then one Christmas day, when for the hundredth time he was pleading his cause, she told him that she had promised to marry another man. It is reported that he went away with a terrible look on his face, and that he was scarcely able to walk out of the house. Anyhow, that night the household was aroused by terrible screams, and on entering the room they found her in a pool of blood, and her heart had ceased to beat. They searched for the murderer in vain, but the next morning the man who had wanted her was found dead in his own bed, and on the table by his side was a confession that he had done the deed. Since then the house has been believed to be haunted. Several families have tried to live there, but in vain. Terrible cries and groans have been heard in the room where the girl was killed, while at Christmas time it is said to be worse."

"The truth is I have been very little at home. Besides, my father has had the house only two years, and last Christmas I was visiting at my aunt's. I've never heard my father say that he's been' troubled."

"Of course it's a lot of humbug" cried Bob. "Ghosts, indeed! For my own part I should like to see one."

"It may be all nonsense," replied Herbert, "and yet I must confess that when I went into the haunted room I had a funny sort of feeling. I shouldn't like to sleep in it on Christmas night, anyhow."

"Well, it may be humbug," said Herbert, "but I challenge you to sleep there, anyhow."

"I accept," exclaimed Bob — "I accept," and in saying this he felt that he was not an ordinary kind of young man. "Does the ghost appear?" he went on, "or are there only sounds?"

"No, she comes alone. She was a beautiful girl, and very good. Indeed, I am told that everybody loved her because she was so good and pure."

"I should like to see her. then," was Bob's reply; "it would be phenomenal, indeed, to see a good, pure woman. For my own part. I doubt whether any such exist."

This latter original remark had been repeated very frequently at the Bachelors' Club, although Bob had an idea that he was the first who ever used it.

Christmas Day happened on the Wednesday in this particular year, and on the Saturday previous Bob found his way to Beechwood. He was promised that no woman, beyond the servants, should be seen; that he should have plenty of shooting; and that in the evening several nice fellows would be present for a talk and a smoke. Mr. Walker possessed a good library, a billiard table, and good cigars. What more could a man want? Anyhow, Bob expressed himself as delighted.

As the conveyance drove up to the house the young man felt that, after all, life was worth living. Mr. Walker gave him a hearty greeting, while Herbert, who took him to his room, seemed in high spirits.

The three days prior to Christmas Day passed quickly away, and Bob declared that he enjoyed himself thoroughly.

"There is something sensible about it," he remarked. "There are no giggling girls about, no spooning going on between them and silly fellows; in fact, it's a joy unspeakable to know that the house is free from petticoats."

"Well, I think it awfully slow," replied Herbert. "I shall be jolly glad when Thursday comes. Eunice is coming then with some of her friends. She will make the house like a new place."

"No, thank you," replied Bob. "I've had enough of women; and besides, there's the haunted room, you know."

"Certainly not. Of course the whole story is a pure fabrication, and only due to the imagination of frightened and superstitious people."

On Christmas Day, Bob spent his time in what he called a sensible way. In the morning he read Rousseau's "Confessions," and then, after enjoying the Christmas goose, he had a sleep; this over, he went for a walk with Herbert, and then came back to Beechwood with a good appetite for tea. A very quiet evening was spent, and at half past 10 Bob went to his room.

It was a comfortable room, rather low-celled, but roomy. The fireplace was large, and in the grate a bright fire burned cheerfully; over the mantelpiece was a large mirror, which, as Bob remarked, was not common in a bedroom. A huge armchair was placed in front of the fire, the kind which goes by the name of "a saddlebag;" and close by the chair a table was placed, on which was a dozen or more books.

Bob sat down and looked contentedly into the fire. He turned to the table by his side, turned up the lamp, and picked up a book.

"I've had a pleasant time. There's been no noise, no bother, no women; indeed, nothing unpleasant. I should have liked to have stayed till Saturday. Bother those girls who are coming to-morrow!" And yet, if the truth must be told, Bob almost wished that he'd consented to tolerate the girls, so as to have had three days more of comfort.

"But there, it's no use," he went on, "it can't be helped. Besides, when I get back, I'll have another try at a story — a real good, moving story, such as makes old people feel young. Ay, I wish I could! Why in the world can't I write? I'm afraid it's no use trying. I believe I'll go back home and ask old Rimmer to take me on again. It's better than grubbing at reporting for the papers. Oh dear! Well, I'll have a read."

How long Bob read I cannot say. Indeed I do not think he knew himself. It might have been an hour or more, but presently he started up uneasily. There seemed to be a strange influence in the room, an influence such as he had never felt before. To his surprise, too, the fire had got low, so he concluded that he must have been sitting for a good while. Then he heard a low, gurgling sound, as if someone had a difficulty in breathing; this was followed by a scream, or at least he thought so, for he was not quite sure. Indeed, he seemed somewhat confused, as though a kind of spell were cast upon his mind.

He tried to rouse himself, and in doing so lifted his eyes towards the looking glass which was placed over the mantelpiece, and in a moment they became riveted, as though there were a secret and occult power in the glass. Indeed, if the truth must be told, he did not want to take his eyes away, for in spite of himself he was fascinated by what he saw.

The Vision of a Face.

BY JOSEPH HOCKING.

Author of "All Men Are Liars," Etc.

(Copyright, 1896, by the Bacheller Syndicate.)

(Continued from Yesterday.)

Synopsis.

PART II.

This was what Bob Graham saw in the glass: first of all, his own face and shoulders, and then behind him the face of a young girl. She might be twenty, certainly not more; indeed, she looked younger even than that. It was an oval face, and to Bob it was free from all imperfection. The chin was beautifully molded, and the lips — he could plainly see how red they were, and how perfect. Member of the Bachelors' club as he was, he felt that he could give the world to kiss them. They were parted, too, as if in eager expectation, revealing glistening white teeth. He saw the eyes, too, large and gray. They shone on him with wondrous brightness, and the look on them was full of mirth, and yet he thought he saw terror as well. Above the eyes was a crown of brown hair. It seemed like a nimbus around the head, so brightly did the curling locks shine. The neck was white and bare, while around the shoulders were garments that were entirely strange. Evidently they belonged to the last century, or perhaps even farther back than that. Indeed, he thought he remembered them as belonging to the Queen Anne period.

He tried to arouse himself, but could not; he tried to take his eyes away from the face in the glass, but in vain. Presently he thought he saw a change come over the face. The look of mirth seemed to die away from the eyes, and the laughter from the lips. He saw the girl's hand rise, while the forefinger was bent; then the hand beckoned him, and he saw her lips move, and although he could hear no sound he thought the word that the lips expressed was "Help!"

He was overcome with terror, and a burning desire came into his heart to render the young girl the service which he thought she desired. He jumped up from the chair and rubbed his eyes, although why he should do this he did not know. Then he looked towards the mirror again.

He threw from him the weight which seemed to oppress him, then he turned towards the door. It was closed. He opened it, and went out on the landing. All was silent as death. He went back into his room, took the lamp from the table and brought it out on the landing, peering cautiously around. Nothing was to be seen. Evidently, the family had gone to bed and were asleep, so he came back and looked into the mirror again. It reflected the room perfectly, but the face was not to be seen. He examined the room, he tried to find some secret door, he went from corner to corner, he looked under the bed, he searched behind the curtains.

He poked the fire and threw a log of wood on the embers. He felt it was no use going to bed, he could not sleep. His mind was very active just then, and he wanted to understand what it meant. So he sat down in the "saddlebag chair" again, and tried to think of some clew whereby the mystery might be explained, but after half an hour's meditation he had not advanced a step.

He was not afraid. The vision of the face had brought no terrors with it, nay rather, he loved to think about it.

"No, I was not asleep," he mused; "I'm sure I was perfectly awake — perfectly awake. I was as much aware of what was going on as I am now. The face was real enough, the dress was real, and yet and yet —"

He thought it all over again point by point, he remembered the page he had been reading in the "Confessions," he recalled the strange feeling that crept over him.

"Can it be the spirit of that girl?" he asked himself. "Is there anything in that foolish story? A girl murdered in this very room, eh? But why did she appear in such a way? No, It cannot be that; but how is It to be explained?"

"It brought no terror!" he cried. "How could it? It was a beautiful face — more beautiful than anything I ever dreamed of. Good and pure!" He thought of his words to Herbert Walker and laughed. "Yes, it was good and pure!" he repeated, "I'd give something to see it again. Why —!"

He stopped suddenly; his eyes flashed strangely. "I mustn't make a fool of myself!" he cried. "I know it's not the thing to smoke in a bedroom; but Mr. Walker is a good old sort, and a cigar always sets me right. I'll have a smoke; it'll bring me back to my senses."

His hands trembled so that he could hardly hold the match; even when the cigar was lit he could not tell whether he was smoking good tobacco or cabbage leaves, and after a few minutes he threw it down.

"I must be getting mad!" he cried. "The face haunts me; I shall never rest till I see that face again! What makes my heart thump so? Oh, I wish — I wish it would appear again!" and he looked long and steadily into the mirror, but nothing appeared.

Again he paced the room, uttering all sorts of impatient exclamations as he did so, and then after half an hour of this exercise he threw himself on the chair again.

"It's no use," he cried; "I shall never rest till I see that face again, never! It's no, use denying it, I'd give all the world, if I had it, to kiss those lips! I — I —. Yes, I'm in love with a face! Whether it has a real existence or not I don't know, but I'm in love! Yes, I'm in love! My word, surely a fellow was never in such a position before! What can it mean?"

He looked at his watch. It was 3 o'clock. The oil In the lamp was exhausted and the light was beginning to die out and the fire had got low again. Then like one in a dream he undressed and got into bed.

When he got down the next morning he found Mr. Walker and Herbert waiting for him.

"Well, you're late, anyhow, and if you don't make haste you'll not catch the one good train from here to London. You are sure you'll not stay and meet the girls?"

"Well, I wish you joy in your lonely den in Grime street. I'm thankful that I was able to arrange for a day or two longer, and you are a fool not to have a good time. Why, the house'll be altogether different when the girls are around. We shall have a grand time to-night."

Neither Herbert Walker nor his father pressed him to stay, and a few hours later Hob was in London. His landlady brought him some tea, and after he had partaken of a rather scanty meal he sat down before the fire in his little room.

He was strangely happy, and yet very subdued. Somehow the last twenty-four hours had made the world new to him, and he could not understand why his heart thumped so loudly. His mind was full of fancies, too; he had all sorts of wild longings. For the first time in his life hew knew what romance meant.

"It's no use," he said, at length; "I'll give up all thoughts of writing. I'll swallow my pride and go back to the law. I'm sure old Rimmer will give me a chance. If only for father's sake. Poor old dad, he didn't think when he was alive that his son would be a scribbler for less than twenty-five shillings a week. No, I'll go back to the law again. I'll —" But even as these thoughts were shaping themselves in his mind the face in the mirror came back to him. He could see it almost as plainly as when he was startled by it at Beechwood. He closed his eyes and he could see it still. The great gray eyes still shone upon him. the rosy lips were parted, as if they would speak to him.

"Shall I go back to the law?" He said this aloud, and it seemed to him as if the lips said "No."

"I think I must be losing my head," said Bob; but if he were, he was not desirous of finding it again. It was bliss beyond words to sit there and dream and see visions.

And so, with eyes closed, he watched the face, which he could still see plainly, and somehow it seemed to tell him something.

"The face is an inspiration, " cried Bob, "a real inspiration. I feel as though I could write now."

He took a number of loose sheets of paper from a drawer, and commenced to scribble.

"It has more in it than I thought," he said; "there is enough in it for a book. Yes, it's too good for a short story. I must work it out fairly;" and again Bob gave himself over to dreaming.

From that time he never attended the meetings of the Bachelors' Club, he no longer shunned society. Rather, he courted it. But wherever he went, the face he had seen in the mirror haunted him. It became a sort of ideal to him. It was his standard for women's faces. It was at once a rebuke and an inspiration to him. Moreover, he felt that somehow he was connected with the face, it was in some way his own, and it was sacred to him.

He had no difficulty in writing from that time. The story which came to him on the 26th of December never dragged. All the time he had at his disposal he devoted to it, and the writing was an unspeakable joy. It did not seem to him that he was writing a story the plot of which had been carefully planned. He simply told a dream which had come to him — a dream of beauty and of joy.

And yet there was a sense in which Bob was far from happy. There was a great hunger in his heart. He longed to see in the flesh the face which haunted him; he felt that she lived, and he knew he loved her. He wandered among London streets, he went to places of amusement, he visited churches, and wherever he went he gazed eagerly in the hopes of seeing in reality what he concluded he must have seen in the vision. He was always disappointed, however.

He gave up the idea of being an original young man; and yet, had he known it, he was now passing through an experience which was far from common, He was in love with a woman he had never seen; he was in love with that which might have no existence other than in his own mind. And yet all the time he felt there was a soul behind those great gray eyes; he felt that he should never rest until the face in the mirror appeared before him in tangible form.

The influence of the face was always good. Whenever he was, tempted to do a mean thing, when the worst side of London life cast its spell upon him, the memory of the face broke the spell. His love, foolish as it might be, kept his life pure. He might only be loving an ideal, but to love a true ideal is a great salvation.

At length he finished his book, and he took it to a publishing house and asked to see the manager. The gentleman was very polite, promised that Bob's story should be carefully read, made a mental observation to the effect that he seemed a fine, capable young fellow, and then forgot all about him.

A few days later, however, the "reader" brought a favorable report of Bob's story, and recommended its acceptance.

Soon after this Bob, after being in the city, came to his room and found two letters awaiting him. One was from the publisher offering terms for his story; the other was from Mr. Rimmer, solicitor, telling him that his mother's only sister had just died, leaving him a considerable sum of money. This letter was typewritten, but the old lawyer had with his own hand writ ten another, to the effect that he hoped he would now give up his tomfoolery about literature, and come back to the law again. He moreover stated that he thought of setting up an office in London, as his practice was increasing in that direction. Why not invest a part of his fortune in becoming a partner, and take charge of the London office?

"You are a good lawyer, although you gave it up foolishly," concluded the old man. I would not have offered you this chance otherwise. Be wise, my lad."

Unconsciously Bob thought of what "the face" would say to this. One she had said "No!" now, as he tried to think of what she would like him to do, she seemed to have no reality.

After some correspondence with his old master, however, he accepted his offer, and settled down to the law again. This acceptance meant a struggle for him. For he had set his heart upon winning fame as an author; but when he tried to write another story he could think of nothing, His vision had gone. He realized, moreover, on reading the proofs of the novel which had been accepted, that he had simply told the dream of his own life. The face he had seen in the mirror was the face of his heroine, and after he had told his hopes and fancies about her, there seemed to be nothing more to say.

The Vision of a Face.

BY JOSEPH HOCKING.

Author of "All Men Are Liars," Etc.

(Copyright, 1896, by the Bacheller Syndicate.)

(Concluded from Yesterday.)

Synopsis.

Robert Graham is a literary young man, who desires to be original. He gives up his law studies and goes to London to find a publisher. Unsuccessful in this, he earns a small income as a reporter. In his pursuit of originality, he joins a bachelors' club, and forswears the fair sex. He is invited to spend Christmas at a country house by Herbert Walker, his friend. He goes on the condition that he will not have to meet any ladies, and arranges to leave the day after Christmas, when a party of girls are expected. There is a haunted chamber in the house, where a girl had been murdered one Christmas night. He ridicules the superstition, and agrees to sleep there. He goes to the room Christmas night, and falls asleep while reading. He wakes up with a start, and is fascinated by a vision in the mirror before him. He sees the face of a beautiful girl who seems to cry "Help!" He turns around but finds nothing. He goes hack to London, and is haunted by the vision. He deserts the Bachelors' club, and writes a book based upon his experience. His book is accepted by a publisher, and he receives a legacy. He accepts the London agency of the lawyer with whom he had formerly studied.

PART III.

Bob's book did not make a sensation when it came out. It sold fairly well, and was much praised in some quarters; but mostly the critics gave it scant notice. It was too fanciful, and altogether unconvincing, they said; but Bob did not mind. He knew he had told the story of his heart, he had described the love which grew stronger day by day. He succeeded very well as a lawyer, and his partner congratulated him on getting back to the world of common sense again.

He removed from Grime street, but he kept up his friendship with Herbert Walker, who had been promoted, and who hoped that the manager's chair would soon be his. About the middle of December, Bob received an invitation to again spend Christmas at Beechwood. This invitation he accepted, stipulating that he should again sleep in the haunted room.

"Of course that can be arranged," laughed Herbert; "indeed, I doubt if any one else will care about spending their nights there."

Bob had not told Herbert a word about the experience, while Herbert had scarcely referred to his last visit.

"Of course you'll not object to meeting the girls this time?" continued Herbert. "You've altogether changed since last Christmas."

"And you seem downright miserable, too, in spite of your good luck," said Herbert. "Wait a bit, there are some nice girls coming to Beechwood. You'll fall in love, and be as happy as a king."

"If falling in love would make me happy, I should be the happiest man alive," replied Bob.

Herbert asked many other questions, but Bob made no further confession, but instead began to ask questions.

"You say you have a cousin who lives with your father; what sort of a girl is she?"

"A right Jolly girl," replied Herbert. "I call her cousin, although she's really no blood relation. Look, here is her photograph."

Bob looked at it eagerly, and then gave a sigh of disappointment. It was not his "face."

On Christmas eve Bob went to Beechwood. He tried to get away earlier, but his practice had increased, and he had to stay in London as long as possible. It was quite dark when he drove up to the door, but on entering all was brightness. He heard the laughter of girlish voices, and contrasted this visit with the last. He went straight to his room, and as soon as he entered looked towards the mirror, as if he expected to see the face which had haunted him. But it was not there. He threw himself into an armchair, put his feet on the fender just as he had done a year before, and gazed at the smooth surface of the glass long and steadily, as if trying to conjure up the vision of a year ago; but in vain. He could see nothing but the reflection of the room, while the only sounds that reached his ears were the shouts of girlish laughter in the rooms near by.

Bob went into the drawing room with a heavy heart. He looked eagerly among the faces there, but he could not see the one he sought. Eunice Lister introduced him to each one; he spoke coldly and mechanically, and the girls thought him an "awfully severe-looking and disagreeable man."

Presently the dinner-gong sounded, and at the same moment the door opened; his heart gave a great bound, the blood rushed madly to his head, while the room and all in it seemed to whirl around him.

In the doorway he saw the face that had haunted him, the face he had seen in the mirror.

"Oh, Mary, here you are at last!" cried Eunice Lister. "Mr. Graham, this is my friend, Miss Gray."

Bob felt as brave as a lion then, and the hunger in his heart ceased. He caught her hand in his; it was hot and feverish. It trembled like an imprisoned bird.

"Miss Gray," said Bob. as he took her into the dining-room, "I have seen you before. Have you seen me?"

"It was you I saw that night — a year ago. You need not answer. I know it was you. I've searched for you ever since. I've something to tell you presently, there is something you must tell me."

Bob wondered afterwards that he dared to speak like this, wondered that she did not resent his words; but at the time he felt he could say nothing else.

Just before dinner was over, Bob, who had been very quiet for some time, spoke again. "You must go into the garden as soon as the rest of the ladies are in the drawing-room," he said, "and I will follow you. There is something I must tell you, something you must hear."

She looked into his eyes. She began to utter a refusal, but she spoke no word. Then Bob knew that the greatest hour of his life had come. A few minutes after, he was in the garden. He seemed like one in a dream; everything was so unexpected, so strange. He had never spoken to this girl before to-night, nor she to him. They knew nothing of each other. But what of that? He had known her for a year; she had been his daily, hourly companion. The moon had risen, the clouds had departed, and the ice crystals sparkled in the silvery light.

"Have I any need to tell you what is in my mind?" said Bob. "I think not. Surely, there is no need of words. There are some things beyond words. You must have felt that your face has been haunting me. Life has been different since I saw your face. I don't know how I saw it, you can tell me that. Before then — well, life was gray, weary. You have made all things different, but you know that. You have known that you have entered my life for a long time, haven't you?"

"I couldn't work till I saw you," went on Bob, "writing was an impossibility to me; but after that night I went back to London, and told the story of my heart in a book." "I — I've read your book," she said, like one frightened.

"I hoped you would. I've felt all along that you were real. I'm glad you've read it; you know what is in my heart — know that I love you!"

"Don't call me Mr. Graham; you must call me Bob. I love you, and you must be my wife. I've been searching for you for a year, dreaming about you, constantly seeing you, and always loving you. You love me, don't you?"

They stood in the bright light of the moon, around them the ice crystals shown. Each stood looking into the other's face.

She told him all about it afterwards. She and Eunice Lister had come to Beechwood earlier than they had expected; in fact, not long after Bob had gone to bed.

When Herbert Walker saw them, he told them how Bob was a woman-hater, that he always avoided girls, that he was leaving early next morning because some of them were coming, and that he was then sleeping in the haunted room. Eunice had suggested trying to frighten him, and after some persuasion Herbert had consented to enter the room in order to see what he might be doing. On being told that he was asleep in the chair, their plans were quickly made. Mary had dressed herself so as to appear as much as possible like the reputed ghost, and while Herbert and Eunice remained outside, and tried to make ghostly noises, she stood at the entrance of the room.

"I looked at the mirror and saw you open your eyes, saw you look steadily at the reflection of my face, then when you started up I hurried out, and we all went into the little dressing-room which is near the one you were in."

"I heard you moving about, and wondered what you were thinking. I wanted to go down to breakfast and confess what we had done, but Eunice wouldn't hear of it, neither would Herbert.

"But you didn't forget me?" asked Bob; "you thought of me afterwards, didn't you? Yes, I know you did. But tell me."

They started out together as long as they dared, these two — so long that Mary made the remark that it was very wrong for her to be so long alone with a stranger.

But at length they entered the house again, and there in the hall saw, hanging from the ceiling a huge piece of mistletoe.

"Come here, Mary." said Bob. "I want to see those eyes again, just to be sure of them;" for Mary tiled to join the rest of the party alone, so that no one might suspect where she had been.

Of course she came. No girl ever thinks of the mistletoe at such a time. There is some mysterious power in the mistletoe — ay, and there always will be, thank God, while hearts remain young.

"I don't believe your eyes are gray after all," said Bob, bringing his face closer to hers until —

"Bob, old man. I've found you out," and turning, Bob saw Herbert Walker and Eunice Lister looking at them.

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