his own hearth. One little kiss to the child,
whose eyes beamed with a strange light upon
us; and then, taking both my hands in his, he
bent down and read my face. I met his gaze
unshrinkingly, eye to eye. We sounded the
depths of each other's heart in that long,
unwavering look. Never more could there be doubt
or mistrust; never again deception or
misconstruction, between us.

Our star had arisen, and full orbed, rounded
into perfection, shed a soft and brilliant light
upon the years to come. Chime after chime,
like the marriage peal of our souls, came the
sound of distant bells across the snow, and
roused us from our reverie.

"I thought I had lost you altogether," said
Martin to me. "I believed you would come
back to me, somehow, at some time; but this
evening I heard, that you were gone, and I was
telling Lucy Fraser so, not long since. She has
been pining to see you."

Now, he suffered me to take the child upon
my lap, and she nestled closely to me, with a
weary sigh, resting her head upon my bosom.
Just then, we heard the carol singers coming
up the avenue, and Martin drew the curtains
over the window, before which they stationed
themselves to sing the legend of the miraculous
star in the East.

When the singers ended and raised their cry
of "We wish you a merry Christmas, and a
happy New Year!" he went out into the porch
to speak to them, and I hid my face in the
child's curls, and thanked God who had so
changed me.

"But what is this, Martin?" I cried in terror,
as I raised my head, on his return.

The child's downcast eyes were closely sealed,
and her little firm hand had grown lax and
nerveless. Insensible and breathless, she lay in
my arms like a withering flower.

"It is only fainting," said Martin; "she has
been drooping ever since you left us, Stella;
and my only hope of her recovery rests in your
ministering care."

All that night, I sat with the little child resting
on my bosom; revived from her deathlike
swoon, and sleeping calmly in my arms
because she was already beginning to share in
the life and joy and brightness of my heart. There
was perfect silence and tranquillity enclosing us
in a blissful oasis, interrupted only once by the
entrance of my nurse, who had been found by Martin
in a state of the utmost perplexity and alarm.

The happy Christmas morning dawned. I
asked my nurse to arrange my hair in the style
in which my mother used to wear hers. And
when, after a long conversation with Susan,
Mr. Fraser received me as his daughter with
great emotion and affection, and oftener called
me Maria than Stella, I was satisfied to be
identified with my mother. Then, in the evening,
sitting amongst them, a passion of trembling
and weeping seized me, which could only be
soothed by their fondest assurances. After
which I sang them some old songs, with nothing
in them but their simple melody; and Mr.
Fraser talked freely of former years and of the
times to come; and Lucy's eyes almost laughed.

Then Martin took me home along the familiar
path, which I had so often traversed alone and
fearless; but the excess of gladness made me
timid, and at every unusual sound I crept closer
to him, with a sweet sense of being protected.

One sunny day in spring, with blithe Lucy
and triumphant dictatress Barbara for my bridesmaids,
I accepted, humbly and joyfully, the
blessed lot of being Martin Fraser's wife. And
even in the scenes of the empty-headed folly of
my girlhood, I thenceforth tried to be better,
and to do my duty in love, gratitude, and devotion.
Only, at first, Martin pretended not to believe
that on that night I stole out to have a last
glimpse, not of him, but of his father: I knowing
nothing of the change that had transformed
Mr. Fraser's sitting-room into his own study.

THE GHOST IN THE DOUBLE ROOM

WAS the next Ghost on my list. I had noted the rooms down in the order in which they were drawn, and this was the order we were to follow. I invoked the Spectre of the Double Room, with the least possible delay, because we all observed John Herschel's wife to be much affected, and we all refrained, as if by common consent, from glancing at one another. Alfred Starling, with the tact and good feeling which are never wanting in him, briskly responded to my call, and declared the Double Room to be haunted by the Ghost of the Ague.

"What is the Ghost of the Ague like?" asked every one, when there had been a laugh.

"Like?" said Alfred. "Like the Ague."

"What is the Ague like?" asked somebody.

"Don't you know?" said Alfred. " I'll tell you."

We had both, Tilly—by which affectionate
diminutive I mean my adored Matilda — and
your humble servant, agreed that it was not only
inexpedient, but in the highest degree contrary
to the duty we owed to the community at large,
to wait any longer. I had a hundred arguments
to bring forward against the baleful effects of
long engagements; and Tilly began to quote
poetry of a morbid tendency. Our parents
and guardians entertained different opinions.
My uncle Bonsor wanted us to wait till the
shares in the Caerlyon-upon-Usk Something
or Other Company, in which undertaking I was
vicariously interested, were at a premium — they
have been at a hopeless discount for years.
Tilly's papa and mamma called Tilly a girl and