and then he, too, fell forward upon his face, with an inarticulate cry of horror.

The thing paused an instant, seeming to hover over his prostrate body, and I could have screamed again for very fright, but I had no voice left. The thing vanished suddenly, and it seemed to my disturbed senses that it made its exit through the open port; though how that was possible, considering the smallness of the aperture, is more than any one can tell. I lay a long time upon the floor, and the captain lay beside me. At last I partially recovered my senses and moved, and instantly I knew that my arm was broken - the small bone of the left forearm near the wrist.

I got upon my feet somehow, and with my remaining hand I tried to raise the captain. He groaned and moved, and at last came to himself. He was not hurt, but he seemed badly stunned.

Well, do you want to hear any more? There is nothing more. That is the end of my story. The carpenter carried out his scheme of running half a dozen four-inch screws through the door of 105; and if ever you take a passage in the Kamtschatka, you may ask for a berth in that state-room. You will be told that it is engaged—yes—it is engaged by that dead thing.

I finished the trip in the surgeon's cabin. He doctored my broken arm, and advised me not to "fiddle about with ghosts and things" any more. The captain

was very silent, and never sailed again in that ship, though it is still running. And I will not sail in her either. It was a very disagreeable experience, and I was very badly frightened, which is a thing I do not like. That is all. That is how I saw a ghost-if it was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.

Nobody spoke for some time after the Novelist finished his story. The wind, which had changed and freshened during his recital, whistled through the rigging overhead, and the vessel rolled heavily from side to side as she bowled along, every other minute bringing the black hurrying waters directly under the feet of the group by the deck-house. At last the silence was broken by Beatrice, who exclaimed under her breath, "I shall sleep in the saloon tonight! I never heard anything so creepy in my life." "There is something decidedly original in the idea of smelling a ghost," said the Critic, "but for a ghost to be big and solid enough to break Brisbane's arm, and yet small enough to get through a port-hole, savors of the improbable. Now, if his atmosphere had been poisonous and Brisbane had been found suffocated, or if he had only had a little more of the Ram Lal style of going to work about him-" "Pshaw!" exclaimed the Romancer, "that story is true, every word of it. Nobody can make me believe I should sit here and shiver at a concoction. Every story that makes your flesh creep is a true story-without that postulate there could be no romance. Therefore, ghosts exist, as everybody knows." "How do you know?" inquired the Tragedian blandly, seeing his opportunity. "Have you ever seen one?" "That is a question," remarked the Romancer, "which no man has a right to put to another. It's as bad, and in the same way, as asking a man whether certain things move him to sins of the imagination. If I

have seen ghosts, it is because I have deserved to see ghosts, and, if I have deserved to see ghosts, why, even the law, the unfairest thing on earth, would not ask me to criminate myself by saying so. But I have no objection to tell you about a ghost that somebody if you care to hear." The company cared very much indeed, as the Romancer learned instantly; so, with the practiced ease of a man who is master of his subject, his style, and himself, he plunged at once into the middle of his story.

saw,

MARKHEIM.

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

"YES," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest,” and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he continued, "I profit by my virtue."

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.

The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on Christmas-day," he resumed, "when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my derangement, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer

can not look me in the eye, he has to pay for it." The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, "You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?" he continued. "Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!"

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of horror.

"This time," said he, "you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to buy. I have no curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have done well on the Stock Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise, and my errand to-day is simplicity itself. I seek a Christmas present for a lady," he continued, waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he had prepared; “and certainly I owe you every excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; I must produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a thing to be neglected."

Then followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber of the