with a dreary solemnity that would have
awed every other occupant of that dismal,
scantily-furnished room; but Samson Brown
was pondering over the probability of an
increase of the income-tax.

However, at the final stroke of twelve, a
sound in the room like the rustling of stiff
silk caused Samson Brown to suspect that he
was not alone. Raising his eyes from the
fascinating paper, he perceived a short female
figure, in an old-fashioned dress, bustling
about the room, and apparently unconscious
of his presence, until, suddenly turning round,
it fixed upon him two glassy eyes. Then,
darting forward, it planted two pointed
elbows on the table, and rested upon two
skinny hands one of the most evil faces that
was ever beheld. Never were earthly wickedness
and spectral repulsiveness more aptly
combined.

Nevertheless, with this most hideous
countenance thrust into his countenance; with
those eyes of glass pointed against his eyes;
with that smile of indescribable malignity
forced upon his vision, Samson Brown simply
said, "Well, madam?"

The countenance remained where it was
without moving a muscle—the eyes were
still fixed beyond the power of twinkling—
the smile was stereotyped, and Samson
Brown, after a pause of a few seconds,
reiterated, "Well, madam?"

A strange expression came over the
horrible features; and its meaning was divined
in a moment by Samson Brown. The ghost
had been used to scare all the world with a
mere rustle of its silken robe. Now, here
was a man who could return its stare, with
another stare far more piercing. The eye of
glass had met the eye of a hawk.

Raising her face from her hands and her
elbows from the table, the ill-looking old hag
moved towards the empty grate, and began
to scratch the wall above the chimney-piece,
uttering at the same time a low wailing sound,
which was the more horrible from being
accompanied by no corresponding effect in the
face, which was again expressionless, and
completely corpselike. Samson Brown stepped
up to the old lady, and examined the wall
over her head, stooping for that purpose till
his chin almost rested upon her antiquated
cap.

"Ha! I see," said he, "that spruce piece
of paper has been pasted on after the rest—
allow me"—and taking hold of a loose corner
of the paper he pulled it off, thus disclosing
a small aperture in the wall, at the sight of
which the ghost, rushing from the hearth,
flew about the room with the most frantic
gestures, till at last, apparently exhausted, it
squatted down in a corner repeating the low
wailing noise.

"Compose yourself, madam," said Samson
Brown, and taking from the recess a miniature
portrait and a piece of folded paper
tied up with narrow green ribbon, he placed
them on the table, at which he resumed his
seat.

The miniature represented a lovely girl of
about twenty years of age, with her hair
dressed after the fashion of a hundred years
back. While Samson Brown was examining
it with all the admiration of which his mind
was capable, the ugly old ghost rose from the
corner and pointed its forefinger with great
eagerness, first at the picture, then at the pit
of its own stomach. As Samson Brown had
a friend who often allowed him a seat in his
opera-box gratis, he was rather an adept in
the language of the ballet. "Do you mean,"
said he, "that this is a portrait of yourself
in your youthful days?"

The ghost nodded.

"Then," said Samson Brown, "you must
have altered confoundedly as you advanced
in years."

The expression assumed by the ghost on
the occasion of this remark was certainly
ungenial. Every feature was distorted with
rage, the glassy eyes looked like red coals,
the skinny right hand took a sweeping
gesture, and for a moment Samson Brown felt
as if he had placed his head in a violent
draught. He had received a spectral box on
the ear.

"I see," he observed, "the cuffs of a ghost,
like hard words, break no bones."

Laying aside the portrait, he untied and
opened the folded paper, when the worst
spelling and the worst handwriting he had
ever seen were revealed to his astonished
eyes. Every crime that could possibly be
perpetrated by mortal in transmitting his
thoughts to paper with the aid of a pen was
apparent in that vile manuscript. There
were adjectives beginning with capitals, and
a little "i" to denote the first person, and
the verb "to write" commenced with an "r,"
while certain rights that had been violated
were spelled wright, with a "w." Even
Samson Brown could not avoid something
like a sensation of awe when he saw how
many sins against every law of grammar,
orthography, and caligraphy had been
committed within the confined space of a single
sheet of paper.

"Good heavens! what a fist!" he
exclaimed. Then addressing the ghost, who
had returned sulkily into the corner, he said,
"Is this your handwriting, madam?"

The ghost nodded.

"Did you learn writing at school?"

The ghost nodded.

"And your parents paid the schooling-bills
regularly?"

The ghost nodded.

"Then," said Samson Brown, "if ghosts
are condemned to walk the earth on account
of wrongs committed in their lifetime, I
think you must very often meet the ghost of
the writing-master?"

The spectre not condescending to notice
this brilliant sally, Samson Brown devoted