but a window and a door, which we carefully
fastened, after placing the young man within.
We put writing materials on a small table
in the summer-house, and took away the
candles. We remained outside, with the
pedlar amongst us. In a low solemn voice he
began to chant the following lines:—

"What riseth slow from the ocean caves
           And the stormy surf?
The phantom pale sets his blackened foot
           On the fresh green turf."

Then, raising his voice solemnly, he said:

"You asked to see your friend, Francis
Villiers, who was drowned, three years ago, off
the coast of South America—what do you
see?"

"I see," replied the student, "a white light
arising near the window; but it has no
form; it is like an uncertain cloud."

We—the spectators—remained profoundly
silent.

"Are you afraid?" asked the merchant, in
a loud voice.

"I am not," replied the student, firmly.

After a moment's silence, the pedlar
stamped three times on the ground, and
sang:

"And the phantom white, whose clay-cold face
        Was once so fair,
Dries with his shroud his clinging vest
         And his sea-tossed hair."

Once more the solemn question:

"You, who would see revealed the mysteries
of the tomb—what do you see now?"

The student answered, in a calm voice, but
like that of a man describing things as they
pass before him:

"I see the cloud taking the form of a
phantom;  its head is covered with a long
veil— it stands still!"

"Are you afraid?"

"I am not!"

We looked at each other in horror-stricken
silence, while the merchant, raising his arms
above his head, chanted, in a sepulchral
voice:

"And the phantom said, as he rose from the wave,
        He shall know me in sooth!
I will go to my friend, gay, smiling, and fond,
        As in our first youth!"

"What do you see?"  said he.

"I see the phantom advance; he lifts his
veil—'tis Francis Villiers!  he approaches the
table—he writes!—'tis his signature!"

"Are you afraid?"

A fearful moment of silence ensued; then
the student replied, but in an altered voice:

"I am not."

With strange and frantic gestures, the
merchant then sang:

"And the phantom said to the mocking seer,
        I come from the South;
Put thy hand on my hand— thy heart on my heart—
       Thy mouth on my mouth!"

"What do you see?"

"He comes—he approaches—he pursues
me—he is stretching out his arms—he will
have me!  Help!  help!  Save me!"

"Are you afraid, now?"  asked the merchant
in a mocking voice.

A piercing cry, and then a stifled groan,
were the only reply to this terrible question.

"Help that rash youth!" said the merchant
bitterly. "I have, I think, won the
wager; but it is sufficient for me to have given
him a lesson.  Let him keep his money, and
be wiser for the future."

He walked rapidly away.  We opened the
door of the summer-house, and found the
student in convulsions.  A paper, signed with
the name "Francis Villiers," was on the table.
As soon as the student's senses were restored,
he asked vehemently where was the vile
sorcerer who had subjected him to such a
horrible ordeal—he would kill him!  He
sought him throughout the inn in vain; then,
with the speed of a madman, he dashed off
across the fields in pursuit of him—and we
never saw either of them again. That, children
is my Ghost Story!

"And how is it, Uncle, that after that, you
don't believe in ghosts?" said I, the first
time I heard it.

"Because, my boy," replied my Uncle,
"neither the student nor the merchant ever
returned; and the forty-five guineas, belonging
to me and the other travellers, continued
equally invisible. Those two swindlers carried
them off, after having acted a farce, which we,
like ninnies, believed to be real."

THE NEW SCHOOL FOR WIVES.

WE have a good deal of sympathy with
persons—and they are many—who look with
regret on the women employed in factories.
It is, undeniably, a sad sight to see women,
young and middle-aged, come pouring out of
workrooms into the street, at meal-times—
some dirty, some fine, some in an anxious
hurry to get home to their children, some
disposed rather to romp and talk and to laugh
loud in the hearing of the citizens.  It is a
dreary thought—how few of them can make
bread or boil a potato properly; how few can
make a shirt, or mend a gown; how few can
carry an intelligent and informed mind to
their own firesides, and amuse their children
with knowledge, and satisfy their husbands
with sympathy.

Again, we agree largely with another set
of observers, who point out that many
processes of manufacture seem to demand
the handiwork of women, and that it is fair
and right that employments should be
opened to them, in an age when the position
of women is rapidly altering. There are
more people, in proportion to employments,
than there used to be; and there is less
marriage.  Very large numbers of women
must, in our day, earn their own maintenance: