possess what commands the outward respect and
tangible comforts of this world.

It was a relief to me to be alone, and to have
leisure to think. Life was about to become to
me a very different matter from what it had been.
The fulfilment of many a wild day-dream was in
my hand; the golden stones to make my castles
in the air realities were heaped about my feet.
How I would build, build, build! How charitable
I would be! How many desolate hearts I
would cause to sing for joy! How many poverty-
stricken homes would I brighten and fill with
plenty! Nothing of personal luxury or
indulgence entered into my previsions; I would be
rich to do good, and rich for that only.

From which glorified dreams the eye of my
mind dropped down upon the narrow iron bed in
the bare barrack-room, where the gatherer of the
golden stones was resting from his weary labours.
I am not usually a nervous or superstitious
woman, but at that view my heart beat louder,
and I glanced hastily into the dim corners of the
room. I was glad to rise up and pace the floor,
and count the gas-lamps gleaming through the
night for company. Then, I tried to picture
what Mrs. Jacques was about at that hour; next,
I brought out a volume of St. Beuve and forced
myself to read, but the admirable essayist was
dumb for me. I could see nothing but the rigid
outline of the massive coffined figure, the straight
stiff hands, the feet uplifting the drapery, and
the marble hardness of the visage; and these
struck on my memory more sharply, more vividly,
than they had struck on my senses when I stood
in his actual presence,—just as a mortal peril
recurs to us with thick heart-throbs when we
have passed it and escaped. I recalled an old
saw, which says that if we do not touch the dead
when we see them they will haunt us until they
are fallen into dust, and then I remembered that
I had held back from my uncle with the same
reserve as I should have met him living. It was
a foolish dread that assailed my excited imagination,
but after struggling with it and endeavouring
to battle it down in vain, I determined to
return to the house and break the spell. Half
way across the square I was ready to laugh for
shame at my weakness; I paused irresolute, and
thought of turning back. But my folly was
equal either way—whether I shrank from the
possible ridicule of my uncle's servants, or from
the superstitious promptings of my own
imagination; so I went forward and rang at the door.
Roberts had put up the chain, drawn bolts, and
bars, and locks, and made all secure for the
night, and was therefore several minutes in opening
to me. I heard the housekeeper speaking to
him sharply, and saying, "Who could it be?" as
she waited. When they saw me, their first idea
evidently was that they had misunderstood me as
to when I was coming into the house to remain,
and that I was coming now. But a few words
undeceived them; I said plainly what I wished,
and why I wished it.

"Master was the quietest man in the world,
ma'am," murmured Roberts, smiling, but respectful,
"and no lover of tricks he wasn't neither, so
surely he'd never be up to the mischief of
haunting anybody now."

It was my distempered fancy, I said, thoroughly
ashamed of my weakness. Then, again,
the housekeeper preceded me up-stairs, held her
lamp aloft, and uncovered the dead man's face.
I laid my hand on his forehead—then kissed him.

"It is years, and years, and years, I should
say, since master owned anybody that kissed
him," observed Roberts, who had followed us
into the room, and now stood at the foot of the
bed with his one serviceable eye screwed up to
concentrate its vision on the countenance.

I inquired if he had served him long. " Mrs.
Proby and me have lived with him a matter of
thirty years, haven't we, Mrs. Proby?" he said,
appealing to the housekeeper. She answered
with a brief affirmative, replaced the napkin over
her master's face, and turned to the door. I
apologised for giving so much trouble, which
Mrs. Proby assured me was no trouble at all,
and Roberts, having dragged on his great-coat,
trotted the grotesque shadows of his bow legs
beside me until he had seen me safely restored
to my inn.

The fresh air had cooled my brain, for Uncle
Burfield haunted me no more, but let me read in
peace until I retired to bed.

Oh, John, I wish you were here to help me
under my new cares! To speak literal truth, I
have not enjoyed one serene, lazy hour, since I
came into my fortune; and to me, without
leisure, life will soon become a wearisome drag.
It seems sometimes like a mockery, a cruel
sarcasm, to have made me rich—at my years, too,
when I was settled down into a certain monotony
and quiet ease which suited my temper
marvellously well. My pretty room at Mrs. Jacques's,
with its old-fashioned bow-window and lovely
view; its shelves choicely furnished with books,
the precious gathering of a score of years; its
summer seat with a glimpse of sea, and winter
corner by the fire, was infinitely pleasanter than
any of the rooms here. I have tried each one in
turn, and not a cozy nook can I discover from
the top to the bottom of the house. When Mr.
Burfield had taken possession of his last narrow
home in Kensal-green Cemetery, I took possession
of his abdicated residence in Russell-square,
and here I am. I have arrayed myself in
complimentary mourning, have retained my uncle's
old servants, and am seeing my lawyer nearly
every day. Our business is more tedious than
complex. Three years before his death, Mr.
Burfield had freed himself from all commercial
speculations, and made careful investments of
his great wealth. It is difficult for me to realise
the vastness of iny inheritance. It is all in
funds, bonds, shares, debentures, ground-rents,
and mortgages; it brings no territorial associations
or responsibilities. It is simply money, the
hard gatherings of a hard life which was spent,
or wasted, in the mere thankless labour of