made no noise. He was wildly excited, and
waved his arms above his head. The moment I saw him, my heart fell
within me. With the entrance of that impertinent apparition, every
hope fled from me. I could not speak while he was in the room.

I must have turned pale, and I gazed steadfastly at the ghost, almost
without seeing Madeline, who sat between us.

"Do you know," he cried, "that John Hinckman is coming up the hill? He
will be here in fifteen minutes, and if you are doing anything in the
way of love-making, you had better hurry it up. But this is not what I
came to tell you. I have glorious news! At last I am transferred! Not
forty minutes ago a Russian nobleman was murdered by the Nihilists.
Nobody ever thought of him in connection with an immediate ghostship.
My friends instantly applied for the situation for me, and obtained my
transfer. I am off before that horrid Hinckman comes up the hill. The
moment I reach my new position, I shall put off this hated semblance.
Good-by. You can't imagine how glad I am to be, at last, the real
ghost of somebody."

"Oh!" I cried, rising to my feet and stretching out my arms in utter
wretchedness, "I would to heaven you were mine!"

"I _am_ yours," said Madeline, raising to me her tearful eyes.

A MARTYR TO SCIENCE.

BY MARY PUTNAM JACOBI, M.D.

_Putnam's Magazine, August, 1869._

My brief residence at Rome sufficed to destroy my illusions.

A Frenchman, a student of medicine, I had, nevertheless, remained an
ardent disciple of Catholicism,--the faith in which I had been brought
up by a devout mother. She was an Italian, and from her I had
inherited an intense, passionate nature, and capacity for belief,
which my father's nationality failed to neutralize. From him, on the
other hand, I had received my education, my profession, and a certain
large habit of thought, which, disdaining all lesser interests,
personal or national, occupied itself exclusively with themes of
universal humanity. This habit, extremely characteristic of French
intellect, concurred,--perhaps as much as anything else,--in making me
an ultra-montanist. As an Italian, I believed in the Church with
ardor,--because I believed; as a Frenchman, I demanded a church
universal, as alone worthy of attaching my belief. The cause of the
Pope was for me identified with the spiritual cause of the world, and
the lukewarmness of so-called Liberal Catholics enraged me. I could
understand the opposition of