hould
advise all my readers to learn; for they would find it uncommonly useful
in case they should ever find themselves in a castle in Spain.

It was Harry who replied. He told the whole story as far as it was known
to himself, dwelling especially upon the character and actions of that
strange being who had played the role of monarch. Harry's light and
playful nature threw a tinge of comicality around the whole story, which
was highly appreciated by all his hearers. And so it was that a smile
began to go round, until at length it deepened and developed into
laughter, and so went on deepening and broadening and intensifying, until
at last the laughter grew, if not Homeric, at least loud enough and long
enough for a castle in Spain.

"It's the Irishman!" cried Don Carlos--"it's the Irish guerilla! It's
O'Toole! The villain! he shall hang for this!"

Harry was too good-natured to feel revengeful, and was just beginning to
beg for O'Toole's life, when suddenly there arose behind them the sound of
hurried footsteps, followed by wild cries. All turned, and a strange
figure met their eyes.

It was a woman. She wore a military cloak and an officer's kepi. She
looked wildly around.

"Where is he? Where is my own one?" she cried--"'His Majesty?' Where is
the hope of Spain?"

Russell saw her.

He threw out wide his manly arms--he opened his mouth:
"Jew--li--a-r-r-r-r-r-r!"

With a long, loud cry he shouted this name, and rushed toward her.

Mrs. Russell saw him coming--her lost, lamented lord! the one whom she had
mourned as dead! Was this his ghost? or was he indeed alive? In any case,
the shock was awful for a woman of delicate nerves; and Mrs. Russell
prided herself on being a woman of very delicate nerves.

So she did what a woman of delicate nerves ought to do--she gave a loud,
long, piercing shriek, and fainted dead away in her fond husband's arms.

Don Carlos gave a grin, and then pulled at his mustache.

"Another victim," said he to the laughing company. "Oh yes; O'Toole shall
certainly swing for this. Discipline must and shall be maintained. Send
out and catch the fellow. Have him up here at once."

They sent out and they hunted everywhere, but nowhere could they discover
any traces of the brilliant, the festive, the imaginative, the mimetic,
the ingenious O'Toole. He was never seen again.

Some say that in the dead of night two figures might have been seen slowly
wending their way up the path toward the