“Are you afraid, _now_?” asked the merchant in a mocking voice. A piercing cry, and then a stifled groan, were the only reply to this terrible question. “Help that rash youth!” said the merchant, bitterly. “I have, I think, won the wager; but it is sufficient for me to have given him a lesson. Let him keep his money and be wiser for the future.” He walked rapidly away. We opened the door of the summer-house and found the student in convulsions. A paper, signed with the name “Francis Villiers,” was on the table. As soon as the student’s senses were restored, he asked vehemently where was the vile sorcerer who had subjected him to such a horrible ordeal—he would kill him! He sought him throughout the inn in vain; then, with the speed of a madman, he dashed off across the fields in pursuit of him—and we never saw either of them again. That, children, is my Ghost Story! “And how is it, good uncle, that after _that_, you don’t believe in ghosts?” said I, the first time I heard it. “Because, my boy,” replied my uncle, “neither the student or the merchant ever returned; and the forty-five guineas, belonging to me and the other travelers, continued equally invisible. Those two swindlers carried them off, after having acted a farce, which we, like ninnies, believed to be real.” * * * * * WHAT DOST THOU WORK FOR? BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. What dost thou work for, oh, tree of the forest, Spreading thy branches so wide and so free? Why hast thou many years wrought in thy season? What is the end of thy work and of thee? “Earth, mother earth, I have wrought for and toiled for, Life still bestows her beneficent breast; When for her I shall garner up treasures no longer, Back shall I sink to her bosom to rest.” What dost thou work for, sweet flower of the wild-wood, Spreading thy garlands of beauty and bloom? Why dost thou toil to bring buds into blossom? Who shall come hither to seek thy perfume? “Earth, mother earth, ’tis for her that I labor. Cheerfully work I by night and by day, All she hath given, and more, shall I measure Into her bosom, where yet I shall lay.” Man, that art heaping up riches and treasure— Man, that art seeking for praise and for fame— Man, that art chasing the phantoms of pleasure— Whose is your toil? Who your labor can claim? “Earth, mother earth; ’tis for her we are toiling, These are her gifts, and to her they return; All we have gathered must go to her keeping, When she ourselves shall in darkness inurn.”