"'The old miser saw me. He would not taste the gruel that night, although his nurse coaxed and scolded till they were both weary. She pretended to taste it, and to think it very good; and at last retired into a corner, and made as if she were eating it herself; but I saw that she took good care to pour it all out.' "'But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last.' "'I will tell you.' "'But,' interposed another, 'he was not worth saving.' "'He might repent,' said another more benevolent Shadow. "'No chance of that,' returned the former. 'Misers never do. The love of money has less in it to cure itself than any other wickedness into which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to be born a Shadow! Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold!--Rubbish!' "'Amen! Amen! Amen!' came from a hundred shadow-voices. "'You should have let her murder him, and so have had done with him.' "'And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of her--could he?' "'I was going to tell you,' resumed the narrator, 'only you had so many shadow-remarks to make, that you would not let me.' "'Go on; go on.' "'There was a little grandchild who used to come and see him sometimes--the only creature the miser cared for. Her mother was his daughter; but the old man would never see her, because she had married against his will. Her husband was now dead, but he had not forgiven her yet. After the shadow he had seen, however, he said to himself, as he lay awake that night--I saw the words on his face--'How shall I get rid of that old devil? If I don't eat I shall die. I wish little Mary would come to-morrow. Ah! her mother would never serve me so, if I lived a hundred years more.' He lay awake, thinking such things over and over again all night long, and I stood watching him from a dark corner; till the day spring came and shook me out. When I came back next night, the room was tidy and clean. His own daughter, a sad-faced, still beautiful woman, sat by his bedside; and little Mary was curled up on the floor, by the fire, imitating us, by making queer shadows on the ceiling with her twisted hands. But she could not think how ever they got there. And no wonder, for I helped her to some very unaccountable ones.' "'I have a story about a grand-daughter, too,' said another, the moment that speaker ceased. "'Tell it. Tell it.'