npleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn,
but what are you to do?

"Yes, yes, show her up," you say, and the girl goes out, closing the
door.

Your wife gathers her work together, and rises.

"Where are you going?" you ask.

"To sleep with the children," is the frigid answer.

"It will look so rude," you urge. "We must be civil to the poor thing;
and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has always
haunted it."

"It is very curious," returns the wife of your bosom, still more icily,
"that she never haunts it except when you are down here. Where she goes
when you are in town I'm sure I don't know."

This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation.

"What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth," you reply; "I am only barely polite
to her."

"Some men have such curious notions of politeness," returns Elizabeth.
"But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb you.
Two are company, you know. I don't choose to be the third, that's all."
With which she goes out.

And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder how
long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone.

I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You remember
how they came to Hiawatha--the ghosts of the departed loved ones. He had
prayed to them that they would come back to him to comfort him, so
one day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside,
chilled the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water.

There is no room for you, oh you poor pale ghosts, in this our world.
Do not trouble us. Let us forget. You, stout elderly matron, your thin
locks turning grey, your eyes grown weak, your chin more ample, your
voice harsh with much scolding and complaining, needful, alas! to
household management, I pray you leave me. I loved you while you lived.
How sweet, how beautiful you were. I see you now in your white frock
among the apple-blossom. But you are dead, and your ghost disturbs my
dreams. I would it haunted me not.

You, dull old fellow, looking out at me from the glass at which I shave,
why do you haunt me? You are the ghost of a bright lad I once knew well.
He might have done much, had he lived. I always had faith in him. Why
do you haunt me? I would rather think of him as I remember him. I never
imagined he would make such a poor ghost.

ON THE PREPARATION AND EMPLOYMENT OF LOVE PHILTRES

Occasionally a friend will