acquaintance," said the widow, smiling in a pleased way. "Well, I don't know why he shouldn't. We're his nearest neighbors, and your father held a high position in the legal world. There was not his equal, I believe; but his heart was so good, poor dear! that he couldn't keep money. Well, well, I hope the poor man may never repent of his bargain."

"It seems everybody has who has ever had anything to do with the gloomy old house. I wouldn't live in it, if they gave it to me," said the bright-faced girl, going back to her seat at an opposite window, overlooking her own little flower garden.

"I wouldn't live in it, if they gave it to me." How often, in the years that were to come, would she think of these lightlyspoken words, and feel herself powerless to control the fate that seemed even now dawning upon her! Light, careless, happyhearted, she only saw the future through the sunbeams of her own girlish fancy, which was not quite free from "Love's young dream," childish as she was.

"At last!" said John Ivington, exultingly, standing on the threshold of his elegant drawing-room, surveying its decorations with a pleased though critical interest. "I couldn't have bought such a property as this with twice the money, in any other place in the country. Haunted! nonsense. I'll make it haunted by everything bright and beautiful. I'll haunt it with some of Wessing's statuary. The group of Faith, Hope and Charity shall stand there. Hum -I'll make it a present to my wife." And he smiled in a quiet pleased way. "To my wife; yes, she shall be my wife; her destiny is fixed. Strange that when I went to that old witch in Breslau, she should show me that face; but she did, upon my soul, she did! They say there's a young fellow comes here, a pupil of her father, 1 know; poor as a church mouse, dark and slightly saturnine in face, enough to give him a 'pleasantly devilish expression,' as my friend Hummel says, sometimes-just the man to interest a pretty girl. But he comes in vain; the young lady is spoken for."

He then threw himself down upon a couch covered with velvet, settled his head comfortably upon the carved wood-work, and began to form his plans. Opposite him loomed up the great mirror, a fixture in the walls that he allowed to remain, while the artisans worked delicately around

it. In this could be seen the long bright perspective of the handsome apartment, velvet, laces, silks and luxurious upholstery. The flowers in the carpet, the frescoes on the ceiling, the fine pictures, the elaborate workmanship of the imported mantel-piece, the costly ornaments above it, the huge silver-branched candelabras, all were reflected with an artistic minuteness that allowed no tint or shade to escape.

"A pretty girl, a beautiful girl, and by Jove, I love her! I love her, and I will have her! Did not the fates decide it, at Breslau ?"

He was gazing languidly at the mirror, when suddenly he saw a man enter from the further side of the apartment-still in the mirror-and come slowly towards him. He would have turned but that he knew in that part of the room was neither door nor window. Besides, that figure was familiar to him, horribly familiar. It was that of a man small and spare of stature, of a remarkably benevolent expression, though at that moment the face wore a look of mingled regret and sternness. Small as it was, and at first it seemed a mere puppet, the features were distinctly marked, and the gray hairs upon the white benevolent forehead trembled to the little breeze that seemed stirring.

John Ivington gazed like one fascinated or entranced. He was not conscious of being frightened, though a slight chill made him shiver. He felt more like a man under some spell of curiosity and awe. Then the house was haunted, and yonder was a ghostly mirror.

The thin old man seemed to advance half way to the centre of the room; there he stood still, and throwing one arm forward, pointed towards a small misty cloud that could be seen now upon the mirror, as if some one had breathed upon it. Slowly evolving, one by one, came the outlines of a ship; more rapidly a tempest gathered. The surface of the glass seemed one vast ocean, broken with huge waves that reared their monstrous crests, and dashed against the doomed vessel. Evidently the storm was at its height. Crowds of frightened wretches appeared in groups about the decks -sailors sprang frantically from point to point, in obedience to hoarse orders, that, with the horrid shrieks of the blast, and the cries and prayers of the death-struck, made a hideous pandemonium of sound.

Suddenly the ship parted. Those who could swim battled bravely for life. Boats and pieces of spar, filled with clinging men, and women, and children, could be seen in all directions, One immense body of wood held but two, an aged man and a little child.

"We might save the child," cried an old salt, as they rode between huge billows, "but not the other. Does she belong to anybody here ?"

"Madness to attempt it," muttered a young man who sat white as death, in the stern. And even in that awful time, he thought of the vast fortune that was his, if that little child sank under the boiling surf. He forgot his sacred trust, forgot his manhood, and did not cry:

"Save the little one; I am her protector. The debt of gratitude I owe the old man her father, cannot be repaid." He held his peace, like one of old, and suffered the timid and the selfish to have their own way.

"It's one of the emigrants," said another; "I remember seeing him in the steerage— the old fiddler. Ha, they are under, now!" "Bear away" cried the pilot; "there's no time to lose!" And the young man turned his head with his wicked thought, perhaps even daring to excuse himself.

He lived it all over, and grew deadly sick and chill, sitting there before the haunting mirror. At last, he ventured to look round. It was no illusion; there stood the venerable gentlemanly figure, and though through it could be seen the rich furniture and the opposite wall, still there it was, an accusing presence.

"What am I here for?"
John Ivington had not spoken.

"I am here to remind you of the past, to tell you that you have perjured your soul, but that there is forgiveness for you if you will be just. I was with you when my helpless little child asked for justice at your hands and found no mercy in a villain's heart. This splendor, the money that you lavish upon it, rightly belongs to her. I trusted you; too blindly I followed my own impulses. I believed you as honest as myself. Did I not take you from the slums of vicious poverty and make you as my own? Yes, as my son I educated you, gave you access to the best society, bestowed my confidence upon you-and how have you requited me for all? I tell you, man, I will haunt you to death! In all your pleasures, I will be beside you; in the silent night you

shall see me, and in the glare of midday. They call this house, that you have bought with my money, haunted. Every place to which you direct your footsteps shall be haunted, every pleasure you enjoy I will poison. I will stand beside your bridal, I will make desolate your household; I will trouble you while, living, and dying, you shall not escape me, unless you make full restitution. My little innocent child you have subjected to all the galling restrictions of poverty. You have thrown her amidst the pollutions of a vicious neighborhood at nearly the age at which I rescued you. You have tortured a little heart that loved you singly and purely, you have taught it to hate and almost loathe your kind. Go and find that child, take her home, educate, elothe and feed her, I ask nothing more. You may keep her forever dependent upon your bounty. Hide the secret of her birth, if you will, but for the sake of God and your own honor, don't leave her among those terrible influences, where her soul and her purity are in danger! If you fail to do this, I tell you I will haunt this old house as it was never haunted before. Wife and children you may have, but misery shall follow in their footsteps and in yours. You shall not feel yourself alone in your most secret hours, but in the presence of an accusing spirit. With a hand of ice I will chill your blood, with a breath of fire I will inflame your soul, till between the two tortures, you go mad. In my life, I was quiet and retiring; but my will was iron, and my purpose relentless, though, thank God! both were turned in the direction of good. But I swear to you I will not let the darling of my old age, the one pledge of my only, early love, suffer through you. And the oath is registered in the high courts of heaven,"

John Ivington arose, guilty, but not repentant. The thing-what was it but a shadow, after all? No one could see it but himself-no other person in the world would or could be cognizant of its presence. Should he, after three years of elegant ease, burden himself with this child? The matter was not to be thought of, not for a moment. The child came up before him as she looked that night-meagre, thin, ragged and dirty. He sickened at the recollection; his fastidous taste revolted. Beside, he chose to consider her an impostor. She was seen to go down-the waves had closed

over her, and this old man and vagrant wished to make money out of their knowledge. Besides, if he took the girl-if, indeed, she was rightfully the heiress of all this wealth, would not common gratitude exact a support for the blind old fiddler? The girl would not leave him, if he had been her benefactor. Indeed the whole thing involved so much thought, expense and trouble, that much the best way was to wash his hands of it, entirely, and let the shadow do its worst. It was, after all, only a shadow.

He started to walk down the parlor a thin hand touched his shoulder, and through the broadcloth and lining, it fell cold, cold as an icy clod, and sent him thrilling and shivering backward. In vain he strove to shake it off; like a grip of iron it remained, rooting him to the floor. Every pore of his body exuded moisture, and every drop of sweat felt like a ball of ice. In utter agony, he opened his lips to say, "I will," when he started to his feet, and with a look of alarm, gazed down the apartment and-came to his senses, seeing one of the workmen regarding him curiously.

"I-I was fast asleep, eh?",

"Yes sir. Excuse me for the liberry, but I wished to consult you previous to going, and shook you by the shoulder-I'm afraid, rather roughly."

"O no, no-quite right. I'm very glad you did. It waked me from a troublesome dream. You were quite right. Hauntedha, ha! by nightmares. Yes, mares that ride in the daytime, sometimes. I imagine every house haunted in the same way,eh ?"

"I dare to say," returned the carpenter, seeing that this confidence warranted freedom. "I've often said I wished they'd give me the house, rent free, to live in; I'd not be afraid of all the ghosts they could raise. It was a pokerish place, though, when we began the repairs-so many odd nooks and corners. I wonder who had the planning of it ?"

"By Jove, though," said the same man, a few moments afterwards (that is he used a rougher word than I feel at liberty to transcribe), "you never saw a scareder man than he was when he fust opened his eyes. I wonder what the chap had been dreaming? His under jaw looked fallen, like the jaw of a dead man, and for a minute, I was frightened."

CHAPTER VI.

THE CHRISTMAS TURKEY WHICH WAS A CHICKEN.

DESPITE the meagre furniture and cheerless walls, the old room in Pop Court took on a Christmas brightness. Flor had found two or three pink and yellow bills, setting forth the merits of some long-gone-by amusement, and had pasted them opposite the windows. With the sunshine falling upon them, the great black and red letters seemed like cheery sprites, dressed in their holiday uniform.

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They are comical little black men, dancing," said Flor, who was endeavoring to interpret them according to her own whimsical fancies; "and they are all going out to Christmas, gran'pap. One of them seems to have a great turkey in his hand, and I suspect he can't find a place to bake it in. I wish he'd pop it in our stove, don't you, gran'pap? Not but what we shall have our own turkey, for I am determined to call our chicken a turkey, gran'pap, for the sake of old times. O! I remember-"

Suddenly she clapped her hand over her mouth, stood breathless a moment, till the old man asked:

"Well, little one, what does 'ee remember ?"

"Nothing, gran' pap-that is-you seeI think I've forgotten. It don't do me any good to, you know, to talk about things that's past and gone; you've told me so yourself-and-"

She had fixed her teeth-a look of qnick passion darkened all the face that the poor old sightless eyes could not see-and the little clenched hauds aimed impotent blows at the air; then she sank crouching on the floor, with a sudden bitter burst of tears. "What's 'ee doing now, dear?" asked the old fiddler, suspiciously.

"I-I'm seeing to the potatoes," said the child, rising to her feet; controlling her voice with admirable firmness, plunging the old one-tined fork into the pot, whose cover she lifted.

"And I've got an excellent tablecloth, gran' pap. What do you think it is ?" she continued, poking the fire a little, after her inspection of vegetables.

"Some of the neighbors lent it."

"Neighbors ?" Poor Flor found relief in a short sharp laugh. "Why, gran'pap,

there's not a family in all Pop Court, I believe, that owns a tablecloth. Mitty Morgan had one, but she pawned it months ago, and so you see one of those great showbills covered the little table, beautifully and the back of it is white and clean, and you can't think how nice it looks. And last night I bought some green tea-dear, how it did cost! but I only got a little, you know, because to-day was Christmas. We always used-" again she clapped her fingers over her mouth, with a scared look.

1

"But we haven't got no dishes scarcely," said the old man, who loved to sit in the sunshine, and feel warm, and loving, and shadowy fingers touching his sightless eyes.

"I know-but I managed," returned Flor, who by this time had dusted the bottom of the old broken-nosed teapot with a plentiful supply of odorous and crumpled leaves, of a rich olive green. "Next door lent me a dish or two, because she was going out to Christmas, and the little hunchback let me have two cups and saucers. They heard, some way, that we were going to keep Christmas, I suspect. Then when Mitty brings up the chicken-no, I say it's turkey-when she brings up the turkey, why, here's a big broken cup to put the gravy in. As to knives and forks, Mitty has promised to look after them. I'll tell you what I'm going to do, gran'pap; I'm going to buy two knives, and two forks, and two spoons, and two plates, and then we'll be stylish, wont we? Now you see I have to eat dinner at the second table, and I don't like it-of course, it's my own fault," she added, in her little firm way, as old grandpap suggested; "but do you think I would keep you waiting? As if I'd be so impolite! But then, you see, we can both eat together-when there's anything to eat," she added, softly. That old blind man little dreamed that sometimes Flor had gone hungry that he might be fed, misled by the child's generous artifice.

the Dutch dram-bottle made his appearance, with a large parcel, which with many bows, and "his 'specs to Miss Flohe wished she'd 'cept."

"Why, Tay," cried Flor, extricating an immense mince pie from its wrappings, "how did you contrive to bring it ?"

"How'd I c'trive to bring it?" queried the fellow, with an attempt at a maudlin laugh.

"Why yes, you're so tipsy!" said the child, with a candid emphasis.

"Tirely owin' to your goodness-Miss Flo-sister-genteel help-she bro-brought 'er brother two-an' he begs to 'c-cept it c-cause 's Christmas."

"You'd better go home and go to bed, though I thank you, I'm sure."

"Home an' bed-tha's jes' it-wish all merry Christm's-good-by." And off he went, Flor expecting momently to hear him plunge head foremost, from the top to the bottom.

Mitty Morgan, a short, fat, vulgar, but good-natured looking woman, who boasted of having seen better times, was Flor's best friend in Pop Court. She it was who, when sober, crawled up into Flor's room after the old fiddler was asleep, and told her old store of fairy stories, occasionally suiting circumstances to present time and place; and Flor had grown very fond of her, though the child always sat with her face within her hands, for poor Mitty Morgan had degenerated from her high estate, whatever it had been, woefully, and when her breath did not smell of gin, it did of onions or garlic, all alike abhorrent to the delicate perceptions of poor little Flor, who remembered bitterly, but never now spoke of the old times.

"So you didn't go to the hotel this morning?" she said, as she sat back surveying the white bones of the victim she had slayed, cooked and eaten.

"O yes, I did," said Flor, "but I was late. I didn't like to seem in a hurry, and so the time slipped by. When I went up, the girl told me Mrs. Walters had gone to church, and had taken my dear little RedRiding-Hood; that she had something nice for me, but had forgot, and carried the key of her bedroom. But she told me to come again, and so I promised to go this afternoon. I don't care for what she'll give me," Flor said again, in her pretty, spirited way; "but it will be delightful to see them both

together-my beautiful lady, and my dar ling little Red-Riding-Hood."

"Let me see, deary, isn't there anything nice I can lend you to wear?" queried Mitty Morgan, looking round distressfully. "Ah, ah, if we were only made of gold"" "And could clip a little piece off," laughed Flor, "every time you wanted, and it would grow again."

CHAPTER VII.

KEEPING THE VOW.

"My darling, hand this to the little girl, and tell her it is something mamma and little Florence bought for her."

Flor had not taken her eyes from the lovely child since she had seated herself at Mrs. Walters's request. Now she started and flushed, and her lip quivered.

"What is the matter with you, my dear?" the lady asked again, noticing a new and singular expression in the face of the child.

"To hear you call her what once my papa called me," cried Flor, the tears starting.

"Why! is your name Florence ?"

"They call me Flor," said the child, coldly, remembering her vow, and, with a resolute effort, driving back the tears.

"I had a sister named Florence, and that was my mother's name, too. Wont you tell me something about yourself? Is your mother dead? Are both your parents dead? I have thought that perhaps that old man was not related to you, I don't know why."

Flor looked down, and was silent; struggling how hard Heaven only knew, to keep her vow-the promise that seemed binding and so awful. If she could only tell this sweet kind heart her sad story! But then if she had, the little romance of her life would have stopped here.

"You have nothing to tell me, my dear?" Flor shook her head.

"Poor thing!" thought Mrs. Walters, "her story, likely enough, would be one of misery, exposure, perhaps of sin. Better for us both that she keep silent."

"Well, my dear, you shall take your time about telling me. If ever you feel like it, remember that I am your friend. I have always liked you because of your ha bitual neatness. Poorly as you have been

dressed, your little hands have been clean and white, and your pretty hair always smooth. I have but little money to give, though I live in this great house; but I have time, which is more valuable, sometimes, than money, and a great deal of patience. Before this blessed Christmas, I said to myself, that I wished to benefit some one, and Heaven put you in my mind. I had some thoughts of asking you to come and take care of Pet."

At this the little one smiled like an angel. The tears came again in Flor's eyes.

"O, it would be beautiful!" she cried. "O, I should like it so much!-but-gran'pap" Her voice died away.

"Do you support him, child ?"

"O, I could do nothing but for his beautiful music! My tambourine only helps a little; but he is blind, and I have taken care of him-since, ever since-he-saved me-from-drowning."

"And he blind, child? is it possible? How did he save you?"

"Please, I'd rather not tell," gasped Flor. This trial was almost too much for her.

"Never mind," said the gentle lady, "some other time, perhaps. Well, here is a nice suit of strong warm clothes; a little hood that will keep your head warm, and a waterproof cape, that will prevent the rain from soaking in."

"O thank you! thank you!" cried Flor, with brilliant eyes. She longed to get away somewhere, and have a long childish cry. It seemed as if in no other way could she express her delight. "How good you are!" she said again, with quivering lips.

Something in the expression of the child's face touched Mrs. Walters, who bent down and kissed the white forehead. "And I suppose you don't go to school?" she said, keeping the tears from her own eyes.

Flor shook her head.

"Gran'pap wanted me to, but who would take care of him? He is too old to leave so long. But I can read all the papers, and I can even write a little. When I was a bit of a girl I printed my own name."

"If you could spare an hour to come here every day," said Mrs. Walters, "I would teach you to write, and some other things. I can give you books, too."

"O, how good you are!" Flor exclaimed again, chokingly.