re
household had vanished forever, and not a word was ever heard from them
again. The ghost-lady is supposed to be a sister of the Countess Maria
Regina, and in some way connected with the death of a young Austrian
officer who figures as a lover in the story; just whose lover no one
seems to know, but it is surmised of Maria Regina's daughter, said to be
a very aristocratic and haughty young person. The castle remained closed
after this mysterious occurrence for about two hundred years, and then
an enterprising Swiss-German had it put in order for a summer hotel.
What are you doing? I believe you are making extracts from my
'Adress-buch.' Now that is something I never allow. I like to give out
information discriminately, with personal explanations."

The young man showed what he had written. "Just a hint or two for
Italy," he said. "I may go down there next week. If I do, I shall
certainly turn aside and tarry a little at your Halden. I should like
to try whether your ghost-lady would lead me into any adventure."

Miss Valentine did not see Morris Davidson again, but a few weeks later
she received a letter bearing a Swiss postmark:

"DEAR MISS VALENTINE,--I am here, and in order to give
complete proof of it I sacrifice my prejudice and write on
ruled paper, with purple ink and an unpleasant pen, that it
may be all of the Halden. The place is exactly what I wanted
and needed. I am so delighted to have it to myself. I am the
only guest in the castle, the only stranger in the town. I
came to stay a day; I intend now to stay a week. Yesterday,
my first whole day, was perfect. I went by train to
Muehlehorn, and walked from there to Wallenstadt, came back
for dinner, and in the afternoon climbed the hill to Amden,
where I found a hepatica in bloom, and had a beautiful view
of the sunset. This morning there is a mist on the mountains,
which is slowly rising, so I am using the time for
letter-writing. Mountain-climbing is not yet inviting, owing
to the snow; but, on the whole, the season of the year is not
at all unfavorable. The loneliness is what I like best. The
people do not interest me; I avoid them, and must appear in
their eyes even more deluded than I am to come to this
secluded spot at this unseasonable moment and be satisfied
with my own society--no, not my own society, but that of
these kind brotherly mountains. From a prosaic ped