e in this big house,
mingling their tears and imprecations. A fortnight later, on Christmas
Eve, in the midst of a great snowstorm long famous in the country,
something happened that quickened their bitterness. A young woman,
battered and chilled by the storm, gained entrance to the house and,
making her way into the presence of the mistress and her guest, poured
out her tale. She was a poor curate's daughter out of some little hole
in Gloucestershire. Clement Searle had loved her--loved her all too
well! She had been turned out in wrath from her father's house; his
mother at least might pity her--if not for herself then for the child
she was soon to bring forth. Hut the poor girl had been a second time
too trustful. The women, in scorn, in horror, with blows possibly, drove
her forth again into the storm. In the storm she wandered and in the
deep snow she died. Her lover, as you know, perished in that hard winter
weather at sea; the news came to his mother late, but soon enough. We're
haunted by the curate's daughter!"

Mr. Searle retailed this anecdote with infinite taste and point, the
happiest art; when he ceased there was a pause of some moments. "Ah well
we may be!" Miss Searle then mournfully murmured.

Searle blazed up into enthusiasm. "Of course, you know"--with which he
began to blush violently--"I should be sorry to claim any identity
with the poor devil my faithless namesake. But I should be immensely
gratified if the young lady's spirit, deceived by my resemblance, were
to mistake me for her cruel lover. She's welcome to the comfort of it.
What one can do in the case I shall be glad to do. But can a ghost haunt
a ghost? I AM a ghost!"

Mr. Searle stared a moment and then had a subtle sneer. "I could almost
believe you are!"

"Oh brother--and cousin!" cried Miss Searle with the gentlest yet most
appealing dignity. "How can you talk so horribly?" The horrible talk,
however, evidently possessed a potent magic for my friend; and his
imagination, checked a while by the influence of his kinsman, began
again to lead him a dance. From this moment he ceased to steer his frail
bark, to care what he said or how he said it, so long as he expressed
his passionate appreciation of the scene around him. As he kept up this
strain I ceased even secretly to wish he wouldn't. I have wondered since
that I shouldn't have been annoyed by the way he reverted constantly to
himself. But a great frankness, for the time, makes its