ars, and go on past St. Paul's and the Horse
Guards into Pell Mell, keeping straight to the right to avoid
Waterloo Bridge and the Nelson Monument, you come to an English
house.

"At the particular period of which I write, the night of the 24th
of December was Christmas-eve in this house, and Mr. R. Fennarf had
just devoured a devilled kidney, some whitebait, a plate of
Newcastle pickled-salmon, and some warm wine and toast, as it is
believed customary for all English gentlemen of the better class to
do before going to bed. Having thus prepared commodious stabling
for a thoroughbred nightmare, he looked at his hands, looked at his
watch, looked at the fire-irons, looked at his slippers in
perspective, and at once fell into an English revery,--which
differs materially from an American one, as everybody knows, being
much superior.

"'Can it be,' said Mr. R. Fennarf to himself, 'that my pride was
really sinful, when I drove my daughter Alexandra from my house,
because she would have wed a potboy? It must be so; for I have not
seen a happy hour since then. Here is Christmas-eve, and here am I
a lone, lone man. Oh that by the endurance of some penalty, however
great, I might bring back my girl, and ask her forgiveness, and be
my old self again.'

"'Thy wish shall be granted!!!'

"This last terrible remark came from a being in white, with a red
silk handkerchief tied about the place where he was murdered.

"'Ah!' exclaimed Mr. R. Fennarf, 'have I the pleasure of seeing a
Ghost?'

"'You have,' said the being.

"'Wont you take a seat, Mr. G.?'

"'No,' sighed the spectre, 'I haven't time. I just dropped in to
let you know through what penance you might be enabled to atone for
your unjustifiable arrogance with your daughter, and recall her to
your side. Your sin was pride; your atonement must be humiliation.
You must get yourself Kicked!'

"'Kicked!' ejaculated R. Fennarf, in a great state of excitement;
'why, really, Mr. G., I would bear anything to gain my desire; but
that's rather a severe thing; and, beside, I don't know that I have
an enemy in the world to do the kicking for me--except it is the
potboy, and his legs are too short.'

"'Nothing but a kick will do,' said the Ghost, decidedly; 'and I
will help you to the extent of handing you this rod, by aid