was dissatisfied. He said
our stories were all second-hand stuff. There wasn't a man in the
crowd who had ever seen or heard a ghost; all our so-called authentic
stories had been told us by persons who had the story from other
persons who saw the ghosts.

"One doesn't get any information from that," said Jack. "I never
expect to get so far along as to see a real ghost myself, but I would
like to see and talk to one who had."

Some persons appear to have the knack of getting their wishes granted.
Jack is one of that ilk. Just as he made the remark, Davenport
sauntered in and, finding out what was going on, volunteered to tell a
ghost story himself--something that had happened to his grandmother,
or maybe it was his great-aunt; I forget which. It was a very good
ghost story as ghost stories go, and Davenport told it well. Even Jack
admitted that, but he said:

"It's only second-hand too. Did you ever have a ghostly experience
yourself, old man?"

Davenport put his finger tips critically together.

"Would you believe me if I said I had?" he asked.

"No," said Jack unblushingly.

"Then there would be no use in my saying it."

"But you don't mean that you ever really had, of course?"

"I don't know. Something queer happened once. I've never been able to
explain it--from a practical point of view, that is. Want to hear
about it?"

Of course we did. This was exciting. Nobody would ever have suspected
Davenport of seeing ghosts.

"It's conventional enough," he began. "Ghosts don't seem to have much
originality. But it's firsthand, Jack, if that's what you want. I
don't suppose any of you have ever heard me speak of my brother,
Charles. He was my senior by two years, and was a quiet, reserved sort
of fellow--not at all demonstrative, but with very strong and deep
affections.

"When he left college he became engaged to Dorothy Chester. She was
very beautiful, and my brother idolized her. She died a short time
before the date set for their marriage, and Charles never recovered
from the blow.

"I married Dorothy's sister, Virginia. Virginia did not in the least
resemble her sister, but our eldest daughter was strikingly like her
dead aunt. We called her Dorothy, and Charles was devoted to her.
Dolly, as we called her, was always 'Uncle Charley's girl.'

"When Dolly was twelve years old Charles went to New Orleans on
business, and while there took yellow fever and died. He was buried
there, and Dolly half broke