e inventor was in earnest. He coughed, and hesitated
what to say.

But, before he could say anything, Pet had kissed her father, and said
"Good-night," in a faint voice, to the guest, and already had her hand
on the knob of the door which led to her little sleeping room.

"Remember, darling--all the blankets, and your shawl. To-morrow morning
you will wake up bright and happy, and ready to enjoy a little surprise
that I shall have for you." He jerked his thumb toward the machine.

Pet understood him, and smiled sadly. "You need bed more than I,
father," said she.

"Nonsense, child!" replied the old man, with a hollow laugh. "It is not
for the patient to prescribe to the physician. There, good-night, now."

He kissed her again with more tenderness. "Remember," said he, "there is
a little surprise in store for you to-morrow."

Pet said, "Heaven bless you, father," murmured another "Good-night," and
disappeared within her sanctuary, closing the door after her.

"Now, Mr. Wilkeson," said the inventor, "we can finish our
conversation."

His voice sounded like a voice from the tomb.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLASHING ORBS.

The rain had ceased, and the moon was out. The dark, massy clouds that
floated between her and the earth were doing their ghostly,
phantasmagoric work. At one moment, clear, white light, like a shroud;
at another moment, darkness, like a pall. An owl, lighting on the spire
of Grace Church in his flight over the city, might have seen the white
edge of the shroud, or the black edge of the pall, advancing in
well-defined lines over the housetops, and the parks, and the two
rivers, swiftly succeeding each other.

It was as if the mighty invisible demons of the night were capriciously
trying the effects of cerements on the sleeping city. It was as if they
were perplexed between the soft beauty of the shroud and the sombre
majesty of the pall. A woman could not have tried on two shawls more
often and more indecisively, before making up her mind to buy.

Little Pet's sleeping room, like every room that faced the south, that
night, was full of strange, spectral effects. The scrolls and the roses
on the cheap yellow curtains that hung in the windows, were changed to
hideous faces of variable size and ugliness. Their grotesque shadows on
the floor mingled with other faces--horrible as antique masks--wrought
by the magic of the moon from the gigantic flowers that adorned the
narrow strip of carpet by the