is damp and cold."

Unfit as she was for the burden, she bore him to her own bed. Wilson was
not at leisure to attend to reproaches just then. She was engaged in a
wordy war with Jasper, leaning over the balustrades to carry it on.

"I never told you there was a fire!" indignantly denied Jasper.

"You did. I opened the nursery window and called out 'Is it fire?' and
you answered 'Yes.'"

"You called out 'Is it Jasper?' What else should I say but 'Yes,' to
that? Fire? Where was the fire likely to be--in the park?"

"Wilson take the children back to bed," authoritatively spoke Mr.
Carlyle, as he advanced to look down into the hall. "John, are you
there? The close carriage, instantly--look sharp. Madame Vine, pray
don't continue to hold that heavy boy; Joyce can't you relieve madame?"

In crossing back to his room, Mr. Carlyle had brushed past madame,
and noticed that she appeared to be shaking, as with the weight of
Archibald. In reality she was still alarmed, not understanding yet the
cause of the commotion. Joyce, who comprehended it as little, and had
stood with her arms round Lucy, advanced to take Archibald, and Mr.
Carlyle disappeared. Barbara had taken off her own warm night-gown then,
and put it upon William in place of his cold one--had struck a light and
was busily dressing herself.

"Just feel his night-gown Archibald! Wilson--"

A shrill cry of awful terror interrupted the words, and Mr. Carlyle made
one bound out again. Barbara followed; the least she thought was that
Wilson had dropped the baby in the hall.

That was not the catastrophe. Wilson, with the baby and Lucy, had
already disappeared up the staircase, and Madame Vine was disappearing.
Archibald lay on the soft carpet of the corridor, where madame had
stood; for Joyce, in the act of taking him, had let him slip to the
ground--let him fall from sheer terror. She held on to the balustrades,
her face ghastly, her mouth open, her eyes fixed in horror--altogether
an object to look upon. Archie gathered himself on his sturdy legs, and
stood staring.

"Why, Joyce! What is the matter with _you_?" cried Mr. Carlyle. "You
look as if you had seen a spectre."

"Oh, master!" she wailed, "I have seen one."

"Are you all going deranged together?" retorted he, wondering what had
come to the house. "Seen a spectre, Joyce?"

Joyce fell on her knees, as if unable to support herself, and crossed
her shaking hands upon her chest. Had she seen ten spectres