dear, dear daughter. It's the thought of danger and sorrow to her that's weighing me down."

"Why, what danger can come near her in this house, living under your care? I saw her yesterday morning. She was pale, but I thought I had never seen her looking so pretty."

"Ah, sir, I wish she wasn't so pretty. I wish it had pleased Providence for her to take after her father or me." "Beauty is a choice gift, Mrs. Berry."

"It may be for those that can live up to it, Mr. Arden; but do you think a pretty girl can be in her right place in this parlour ?"

"It is a dull life for a girl, no doubt; but she must be happy with her kind mother."

"Oh, sir, what can my kindness do for her? I'm always busy about the house from morning to night; for though I keep two servants, I'm never able to sit down. Servant girls want looking after at every turn. And then there's the cooking, which I daren't trust to any one. What company am I for a girl of eighteen? She sits alone in this room all day long, trying to pass the time-sometimes it's fancy-work, or trimming a hat; or sometimes I find her deep in studyFrench exercises-or an instructive book. Sometimes I find her crying over Lord Byron's poetry, or a novel; and I don't like to see Lisbeth cry even over fictitious troubles, for she takes such things to heart more than other girls."

"She has the look of a sensitive person."

"Sensitive isn't the word, sir. She's made up of nerves and fancies. The dreams that girl has! Often and often she wakes with a scream, and tells me what she's been dreaming, things that make my blood run cold."

"I fear you keep her too close in this house. She wants fresh air, exercise, change of scene."

"That's just what the doctor said, sir, when she was so low last summer-as white as a ghost-and no appetiteand scarcely any sleep. 'Give her fresh air and change, and cheerful young society,' says Dr. Durrant; and since then I've been obliged to give her more freedom, you see, sir; and she goes for a long walk with a friend every dayin the parks-sometimes right across London, as far as Primrose Hill."

"Nothing could be better for her, if the friend is a person you like, and whom you can rely upon for good conduct and good principles."

"Oh, Mr. Arden, who can rely upon anybody? After all the young servants I've had in the last twenty years, I know there's no such thing as reliance where girls are concerned. Miss Milsome is the daughter of the Italian warehouseman round the corner, most respectable people, and much better off than me and my girl. She's a very pleasant-spoken young lady, and has had the best of educations at the High School."

"A schoolfellow of your daughter's, I suppose?"

"Ah, no, sir; our girl never went to school. Her father would not hear of school for her. He would hardly let her out of his sight. She was brought up in this room, like a hothouse flower."

It seemed an unlikely place for a flower to bloom in, hardly an atmosphere for the rankest weed.

"We engaged a young person to come in every day, from breakfast to dinner, to carry on her education. Perhaps we've been wrong, sir, in keeping her so close; but we wanted to bring her up without any contact with London wickedness. She's as innocent as a little child, and, except for what she may have read without our knowledge in the poets-being not much of bookworms ourselves-she doesn't know the meaning of sin."

Mrs. Berry's manner in speaking of the poets implied that she looked upon them as dangerous characters.

"We had an elderly German lady twice a week, to teach her the piano. My poor James grudged no expense for her. He worshipped the very ground she walked upon."

"Well, but, my dear Mrs. Berry, what is your trouble about your daughter?"

"It's the worst kind of trouble, sir, for a mother. I know my girl isn't happy, and I'm afraid-oh, sir, I'm afraid she's deceiving me--and I'm afraid there's a man in the background."

"What man? Is it any one you know?"

"No, sir. I only wish it was, for then I should be able to deal with him. There's a man in the background; a man

who came to this door with Lisbeth yesterday evening, in the dusk, after six o'clock. Matilda Jane saw him from the attic window; a very tall fine-looking man, she said.; and she saw him bending down to talk to Lisbeth, and Lisbeth let him hold her hand; and the two stood there, hand in hand, for a bit, before she rang the bell. He had gone clean out of sight when Matilda Jane opened the door, for she looked up and down the street, on a pretence of wanting to see if it was raining."

"And your daughter told you nothing about this stranger?"

"Not she, sir. I asked her where she had been, and why she came home so late; and she said she and Emma Milsome had been for a long walk Brompton way, and had their tea at an A.B.C. shop in the Brompton Road. God knows how much of that is true, or how much false. I can't lower my daughter by questioning her friend.”

"You should question your daughter, severely, if necessary."

Oh, Mr. Arden, I couldn't be severe with her, if I tried ever so. She has a look that melts me. Her sweet blue eyes fill with tears at a cross word. She is too sensitive for this world. I can't bear to talk unkindly to her; and I can't bear to deprive her of anything she has set her heart upon; and that's where I feel I've been wrong in letting her go to the theatre to-night."

"You are letting her go to the theatre without you?"

"You see it's this way, Mr. Arden. Emma Milsome came round at four o'clock and said she had had an order sent her for the Criterion, from a friend-an order for two for the upper circle, and might Lisbeth go with her? Their old book-keeper, who lives in the house, would see the two girls safe inside the theatre, and would meet them at the door when the play was over, and bring them safe home. It's hardly a step from here, as you know, sir; and Emma was very earnest about it; and Lisbeth she just looked at me with her eyes shining like stars; and I couldn't bring myself ⚫ to say no."

"And now you are sorry you said yes?"

"I can't help feeling uneasy, sir, remembering how strange and upset Lisbeth has been lately; and remembering what

Matilda Jane told me about the stranger talking to her at my own door. Do you think I did wrong, sir?”

"I don't think you were wise. How did Miss Milsome come by the order?"

"A friend gave it her."

"What kind of a friend?"

"I believe it was some one in the orchestra. The Milsomes keep a good deal of company."

"I think your first duty should have been to question your daughter about the stranger. That is a serious matter, you see."

"Yes, sir; I feel that it is very serious. It's preying upon my mind every hour of the day."

"And in the face of that difficulty I don't think you should have let her out of your sight for a whole evening." "That's what I feel, sir-and, oh, if you would only help me in my trouble, I should be more grateful than words can say."

"There's only one way that I could help you; and that is to go to the theatre and see if your daughter and her friend are there, and not in dangerous company."

"It seems asking you too much, sir; but if you would do

"I will do as much, with pleasure, if it will be any relief to your mind."

"It will, sir; the greatest possible relief."

II.

From Walter Arden, in London, to Douglas Campbell, in Tasmania.

MY DEAR Douglas,

I have not forgotten how in the old days at Balliol we made a compact in which I pledged myself that if ever in the course of my life, soon or late, I came upon any experience which tended to shake me from my sceptical attitude as to those supernatural influences which you have always believed in, I would send you a careful record of that experience. It might be something vague and elusive, no visible presence of the unforgotten dead, no sound of voice, or touch of hand. It might be no more than a strange dream. It might be a state of mind, rather than an occurrence; but any mental phase, any mood or feeling, for which I was unable to account upon commonsense grounds, which seemed to pass beyond the limits of human reason, would be not unworthy your consideration; and it was in our compact that I should send you my deliberate and honest description of my feelings, across the width of the world which divides us.

I have often thought of our compact, entered upon so gravely on your part, so lightly and half-scornfully on mine, and of those long arguments we have held in many a winter walk on the Woodstock Road.

Your Highland blood made for belief in that other world which to your fancy was all about us-bound by no law of place or time-in the midst of this mechanical universe governed by laws so rigid and unalterable. I, the man who worshipped science, and bowed to its adamantine rule, could but smile at your belief in things that science makes mock of-in the invisible presence of the dead, as