was my utter depravity, that the circumstances
which depressed the nobler quality allowed the
lower one to flourish with full vigour. I
sneaked out of the parlour to the bar,
endeavoured to ingratiate myself by asking for
something cheap which I did not want (a biscuit, I
think it was), and then with the grossest
affectation of vagueness, propounded the following
question:

"Excuse the liberty, but did not I overhear
—unintentionally, of course—something about
some person who walked in some field in some
remarkable manner?"

"That's right, master," replied a man in a
shaggy great-coat.

"Oh yes, quite correct," said the landlord,
"but for further particulars you had better
address yourself to this good lady here. You
know there's some sort of knowledge that thrives
best in the heads of elderly ladies," he added
with a wink.

I am overwhelmed with shame and confusion
when I write down the humiliating fact that I
actually—winked in return. If I were a member
of parliament, I wonder whether I should ever,
by the remotest chance, find myself voting with
the minority!

"Oh, the gentleman is quite welcome to hear
the story if he likes," said the old lady: a most
respectable inoffensive-looking person, "I don't
care for a laugh or two."

How unworthy was I to walk on the same
soil with that heroic old woman!

I shall not repeat the words of her narrative,
for it was somewhat prolix, and abounded in
details that did not bear directly on the main
subject. It will be sufficient to state that
according to the excellent lady's belief, one Miss
Catherine Crackenbridge had, on the 29th of
February, many years before, gone out to meet a
clandestine lover, and had been seen to cross
Swampy Field. Since that time, nothing had
been heard of her. Some supposed that she was
entrapped and murdered by a designing villain;
some, that she met with a fatal accident; some,
that she committed suicide. This much was
certain: that every 29th of February her figure
might be seen—in fact, must be seen—to cross
Swampy Field about nightfall, by any person who
happened to be on the spot.

After exchanging a look of bland superiority
with the landlord—despicable being that I was!
—I asked if the ghost were in the habit of
carrying an umbrella.

"Ho-ho-ho!" roared the landlord. "Why,
of course it would, if it went out on a wet
evening like this. Well, that's a good 'un. The
gentleman has given it her there, and no mistake;
hasn't he, Jim?"

The man in the shaggy great-coat grunted
his assent, with a low chuckle. And there was I
—wretch that I was—allowing myself to be
applauded for inflicting a stupid sarcasm on a
defenceless female, when I firmly believed every
word of her statement, and was merely
endeavouring to satisfy my curiosity with reference
to my strangely acquired treasure. I even
joined in the laugh, and allowed them all, the
old woman included, to believe that I regarded
myself as an exceedingly witty and facetious
person. The old woman merely observed that
she knew nothing about umbrellas, and left the
house in a state of irascibility that was not only
justifiable, but highly laudable. As for me, I
swaggered back into the parlour with the air of
a conqueror by whom a worthy adversary has
been valiantly demolished.

My surprise was not small when I perceived
that the umbrella had changed its position
during the conversation at the bar. I had left
it with the convex side towards the fire, and
consequently the handle in the opposite direction.
Now, the handle was towards the fire, and
the convex surface of gingham towards the door.
As no one had entered the room, this movement
was perfectly astounding, yet I did not utter a
single ejaculation. I snatched up the umbrella,
boldly tucked it under my arm, and stalked
through the bar, bidding a hasty farewell to the
landlord, and making the utterly frivolous
remark that I did not think I should miss the
train. If all the ghosts of all the Hamlets had
stood in visible shape before me, I would rather
have walked through them, than have committed
myself to a word, look, or gesture, that could have
compromised me in the eyes of the landlord and
his gruff acquaintance. As it was, the initial
letters C. C. carved on the handle, confirmed my
belief that the umbrella had been the property
of the ill-starred Catherine Crackenbridge.

The umbrella, I may observe—though of gingham
—was of no common order. Its ivory handle
was extremely massive, and richly adorned with
that elaborate tracery, which seems to betoken
an Oriental origin. The initial letters to which
I have referred had not been scratched on with
the first sharp instrument that came to hand,
but had been elegantly carved.

Hence it was no wonder, that when I called
on my old friend Jack Slingsby, to whose
residence I proceeded as soon as I quitted the
train, he exclaimed, in his usual elegant style:

"Why, old boy, that's a stunning gingham
you've got there. Well, that is an out-and-
outer!"

"Yes, it is rather a good one," I answered,
with despicable indifference; and I put it in the
corner near the door, and hung my hat upon it,
in conformity with an old habit of mine. Being
of a careless disposition, I lost many an umbrella
in early youth. To prevent the recurrence of
such accidents, I now adopt the expedient of
using my umbrella as a hat-peg, whenever I
make a visit. I cannot easily forget; my hat, nor
can I take my hat without handling my
umbrella.

"Well, but you don't mean to tell me,"
pursued Jack, "that you bought that article
with your own money? A purchase of that
kind is not like my old friend Yorick Zachary
Yorke."

"No; I did not purchase it—it—it came
from India," I replied, devoutly hoping, with
the little conscience that was left me, that I had