into an adjacent shed, gloomily expired. The
engine departed to its rest in a grass-grown
siding, the driver to his, in a cottage beyond
human ken—" aside of them rises"—pointing
in the direction of a mountainous country,
apparently about five miles distant.

No station-master was visible. Howbeit, an
elderly hermit, in the costume of a porter of the
Victorian age, patiently explained to me the fact
that, having overpassed my proper " junction," I
had before me a residence at the Den of four
hours thirty-two minutes.

What to do ? The landscape was unattractive;
besides, it drizzled, mizzled—what is the
damp expression that signifies a substance
equidistant between nothing and rain? Books I had
none, nor even a penknife, wherewith to improve
the time and trees. There was, it is true, on
the wall of the station itself, a small but choice
collection of high art. Thence I learned how that
Sampson Barkwise Pecklebody (address in full),
having, one fatal morn (specified), permitted
himself to occupy a certain class of carriage
not usually associated with the description of
ticket he had previously taken, was mulcted
by indignant justices (set forth) in the
unmitigated penalty of Thirty Shillings and costs—
the permanent proclamation of which little
incident, on the wall, must have imparted a
peculiar interest to Mr. Pecklebody's subsequent
journeyings by that line.

The Bed sent by Post—not only sent, but
actually prepaid—perpetual enigma to the
untravelled mind—presented its graceful form.
Leisure there was to ponder why Messrs.
Kornyman should alone dispense the pure
article. Whether those gentlemen found it a
commercial success, or whether a proud sense
of moral rectitude was their sole reward.
Ha! Frith? No. It is but a bold episode
of London life, by a hand unknown, importing
pictorially that Messrs. Bobbs and Thirkettle
have engaged two-thirds of the western side of
Regent-street for the display of their unrivalled
assortment of summer stuffs. A royal equipage
has just rolled heavily from the door, surcharged
with purchases. The Lord Mayor, dissatisfied
with eastern establishments, comes prancing up,
attended (as usual, on shopping expeditions) by
his faithful sheriffs, and other civic functionaries,
among whom I think I faintly recognise the
toastmaster. Three officers of her Majesty's
Life Guards, in complete cuirass, about to enter
in quest of their summer stuffs, make way for a
right reverend dignitary, his wife, and a procession
of fair daughters, so extended that it has to
be continued round the corner.

"As the literature of Something's Den is
quite capable of being exhausted before train-
time, allow me to contribute to it," said a
pleasant voice beside me.

The speaker, a man about sixty, perfectly
gentlemanlike in appearance and address, had
stepped out from the booking-office, and was
offering me a handful of papers.

"Two poor fellows marooned on this
inhospitable shore," he continued, laughing, " need
not stand on any ceremony, I think. It will be a
good three hours before succour reaches us."

We gradually slid into conversation, pacing
up and down the sheltered portion of the platform.
The stranger talked easily and agreeably.
I had seldom met with an Englishman who
overcame, with such unobtrusive facility, the
reserve of first acquaintance. An hour flew
past, and, before its expiration, we had become
as old and intimate friends.

The weather had by this time cleared a little,
and there had become visible the grey top of
an old mansion, with one tower, half smothered
in fine woodland, covering a slope some two
miles off.

"Whose residence is that, yonder?" inquired
my companion of the hermit-porter, who, seated
on a retired bench, was dropping a sharp-
pointed knife, with singularly inaccurate aim,
at a disabled humble-bee, squatted on the soft
boards. Having, at the moment, nearly got the
range of his victim, the hermit did not deem it
expedient to suspend his fire, but simply replied
that he didn't justly know. " 'Twarn't nobody's.
There was—summot wrong. Ghosts 'fested
it—leastways, them top rooms—Gardener's
wife—below. (The bee, suddenly impressed
with a vague presentiment of danger, gave a
convulsive shudder, and drew up one leg.)
Never heerd the rights on it. Howsever,
nobody can't—live—(bee dissevered
longitudinally, presenting the remarkable
appearance of two half bees in animated conversation)
—live there, they can't."

"I was curious," observed the stranger, as
we turned away, " to hear what he would say.
That place is Mournivale, the scene of one of
the most extraordinary series of incidents that
ever found place in England's domestic annals.
If you wish it, seeing that we have abundant
time, I will give you the substance of the
history."

CHAPTER II.

THIRTY years ago (resumed my friend),
I commenced my professional career of medicine,
with the ridiculous blunder of purchasing
what is popularly called the "good will" of
this district. I could have had it on precisely
the same terms on which my predecessor had
created it. My neighbours were benevolence
itself, and—short of being at any time, within my
recollection, in the least indisposed—did
everything in their power to make me comfortable
and happy. There was excellent trout fishing,
of which certain industrious otters, and myself,
seemed sole proprietors; and between us the
best feeling always prevailed, they sparing my
favourite pools, and I delicately avoiding the
immediate neighbourhood of their dwellings;
while my practice, which comprised two healthy
farms, a robust toll-house, and the beer-shop,
left ample leisure for my favourite sport, besides
watching my busier neighbours.

Do not imagine that the parties I have referred
to represented the entire population of the
district. Somewhere among the trees lurk two
little villages, one, in right of its superior size,