"Curse God and die," seemed hissed in his ears; and Jared started and roused himself. He had read and heard of men being tempted into rebellion against their Maker; he had known of those who, in their despair, had been seized by some horrible impulse which had led them to rush headlong into the presence of the Judge--men rich in this world's goods, high in the opinion of their fellows--men to whom high honours had been awarded in the temple of fame,--and yet unaccountably attacked by that dread horror which so often tempts the wretched prisoner to shorten the term of his punishment. Might not this be akin? Was not this some temptation? Oh! that wandering imagination--that too faithful mirror! Jared shuddered as in it he pictured more than one fearful termination of his career, and saw his wretched wife upon her knees beside something--something against which he closed his eyes, and upon whose horrors he dared not gaze. Yes, this was some such temptation; but he was a man who could defy it; and starting forward, he seized two or three stops on either side of the instrument, and dragged them out, before running his fingers rapidly along the keys; but the next instant he paused and shuddered, for in place of the organ's swelling tones came the low dull rattling bone-like sound of the keys, to rise and fall and go floating through the silent nave of the old church in a strangely weird, dumb cadence. He gazed before him into his mirror, but it was a black depth, which gave but one reflection--his own ghastly face. Again he leaned forward and swept his fingers over the keys, as if engaged in playing one of his favourite voluntaries; but he ran through only a few lines, for the low soft rattle again floated through the church, and then he shuddered as he drew back his hands, for the scrap of candle in the sconce fell through, darting up one sharp blue flame, by whose rays the keys of the instrument seemed to grin at him like the teeth of some huge monster. Then all was silence and gloom, suited to his morbid imaginings, and the visions seemed to float before him once more in the mirror--old dreams-- new dreams--old dreams with fresh incidents--dreams of his brother, mocking and jeering at his poverty, and in his prosperity ever crushing him down--dreams of misery--dreams of happiness, wooing and wedding, and joy-bells clashing out jubilant and merry--dreams--dreams--dreams pictured in the depths of that old mirror, and then darkness--a blank. Cold and shuddering, he started up, for it seemed that a cold breath of air passed across his brow; then he was listening to a noise as of a closing door; then there was the soft pat as of footsteps--a rustling-- the creak of a pew-door turning upon its hinges; and slowly turning his head, Jared Pellet sat with dilated eyes, there in the darkness and silence of the old church--listening. Volume 3, Chapter XI. "WAS IT GHOSTLY?"