person. His pants were in good
condition then; certainly, if they had been in their present plight, it
would have been noticed.

The first impulse of the visiting party was to laugh at the
extraordinary appearance he presented; but a stronger feeling of
interest and sympathy overruled the inclination, and the culprit was
spared this humiliation. Richard was almost as much astonished as they
were, for he had not regarded a thing so trivial as his personal
experience, in the excitement and terror of the hour.

While the party were scrutinizing him with surprise and anxiety, he
happened to glance at the looking glass on the bureau. Then he saw his
hair tangled and matted with mud and filth; then he saw his dirty,
tear-furrowed cheeks; and then he saw his befouled and torn pants. In
the choice language of the boys, it seemed to him that "the cat was out
of the bag" beyond the possibility of recovery.

"What ails you, Richard? What under the sun has happened?" asked Mr.
Grant again, for the terrified boy made no reply to the first question.

But Richard was an old head, and he had no notion of being defeated in
the present contest of words or ideas. He stood like a statue in the
middle of the floor, and made no reply to the interrogatories.

"Where have you been?" said his father. "Can't you speak?"

"I don't know," replied Richard, with a bewildered look, as he glanced
with a vacant stare at his soiled garments.

"Don't know where you have been?"

"No, sir."

"That's very singular," said uncle Obed.

"Have you been up since you went to bed?" demanded Mr. Grant.

"I don't know," replied Richard, vacantly, as though the whole matter
was as much a mystery to him as to the others.

"Where were you when the alarm was given?"

"Out on the roof of the conservatory."

"On the roof!" exclaimed his father. "How came you there?"

"I don't know," answered Richard, shaking his head.

"Don't you know any thing about it?"

"No, sir. I woke up, and heard some one halloo, Robbers! thieves! I was
close by the window, and I jumped in, and hallooed with the rest of
them."

"Were you standing on the roof?"

"No, I was flat on my face."

"I see," interposed Mr. Presby, holding up his hands with astonishment,
"I understand it all. The poor boy is a sleep walker."

"Richard?" said Mr. Grant, who had never known his son to do such a
thing before.

"Yes, sir; your boy is unquestionably a somnambulist. He has been
wander