obtaining, if possible, some treasure belonging to us, which had been
buried in the cellar. I may say that I was unsuccessful: the discovery
of many human bones in the ruins had set the authorities digging for
more. They had found the treasure and had kept it for their honesty. The
house had not been rebuilt; the whole suburb was, in fact, a desolation.
So many unearthly sights and sounds had been reported thereabout that
nobody would live there. As there was none to question nor molest, I
resolved to gratify my filial piety by gazing once more upon the face of
my beloved father, if indeed our eyes had deceived us and he was still
in his grave. I remembered, too, that he had always worn an enormous
diamond ring, and never having seen it nor heard of it since his death,
I had reason to think he might have been buried in it. Procuring a
spade, I soon located the grave in what had been the backyard and began
digging. When I had got down about four feet the whole bottom fell out
of the grave and I was precipitated into a large drain, falling through
a long hole in its crumbling arch. There was no body, nor any vestige of
one.

Unable to get out of the excavation, I crept through the drain, and
having with some difficulty removed a mass of charred rubbish and
blackened masonry that choked it, emerged into what had been that
fateful cellar.

All was clear. My father, whatever had caused him to be "taken bad" at
his meal (and I think my sainted mother could have thrown some light
upon that matter) had indubitably been buried alive. The grave having
been accidentally dug above the forgotten drain, and down almost to the
crown of its arch, and no coffin having been used, his struggles on
reviving had broken the rotten masonry and he had fallen through,
escaping finally into the cellar. Feeling that he was not welcome in his
own house, yet having no other, he had lived in subterranean seclusion,
a witness to our thrift and a pensioner on our providence. It was he who
had eaten our food; it was he who had drunk our wine--he was no better
than a thief! In a moment of intoxication, and feeling, no doubt, that
need of companionship which is the one sympathetic link between a
drunken man and his race, he had left his place of concealment at a
strangely inopportune time, entailing the most deplorable consequences
upon those nearest and dearest to him--a blunder that had almost the
dignity of crime.

JUPITER DOKE, BRIGADIER-GEN