his bosom, and answered: "I must not forget my old
wife."

MISS JEROMETTE AND THE CLERGYMAN.

I.

MY brother, the clergyman, looked over my shoulder before I was aware
of him, and discovered that the volume which completely absorbed my
attention was a collection of famous Trials, published in a new edition
and in a popular form.

He laid his finger on the Trial which I happened to be reading at the
moment. I looked up at him; his face startled me. He had turned pale.
His eyes were fixed on the open page of the book with an expression
which puzzled and alarmed me.

"My dear fellow," I said, "what in the world is the matter with you?"

He answered in an odd absent manner, still keeping his finger on the
open page.

"I had almost forgotten," he said. "And this reminds me."

"Reminds you of what?" I asked. "You don't mean to say you know anything
about the Trial?"

"I know this," he said. "The prisoner was guilty."

"Guilty?" I repeated. "Why, the man was acquitted by the jury, with the
full approval of the judge! What call you possibly mean?"

"There are circumstances connected with that Trial," my brother
answered, "which were never communicated to the judge or the jury--which
were never so much as hinted or whispered in court. _I_ know them--of
my own knowledge, by my own personal experience. They are very sad, very
strange, very terrible. I have mentioned them to no mortal creature. I
have done my best to forget them. You--quite innocently--have brought
them back to my mind. They oppress, they distress me. I wish I had found
you reading any book in your library, except _that_ book!"

My curiosity was now strongly excited. I spoke out plainly.

"Surely," I suggested, "you might tell your brother what you are
unwilling to mention to persons less nearly related to you. We have
followed different professions, and have lived in different countries,
since we were boys at school. But you know you can trust me."

He considered a little with himself.

"Yes," he said. "I know I can trust you." He waited a moment, and then
he surprised me by a strange question.

"Do you believe," he asked, "that the spirits of the dead can return to
earth, and show themselves to the living?"

I answered cautiously--adopting as my own the words of a great English
writer, touching the subject of ghosts.

"You ask me a question," I said, "which, after five thousand years, is
yet undecided. On that account alone, it is a q