"No, indeed," I said. "I hope you are sleeping well, Mrs. Bailey." "No, I am not, Becky. As night comes on I get a pain in my side, and it keeps me awake for hours." "What a shame!" I exclaimed. "I'll come and rub it for you, if you like, when my work's done. Were you awake last night, Mrs. Bailey?" "I didn't close my eyes till past two this morning; too bad, eh, Becky?" "Indeed it is. I hope you were not disturbed." "Only my side, Becky; nothing else." This conversation convinced me that Richard Manx had not heard any such sound as he stated. What was his purpose in endeavouring to deceive Mrs. Preedy? The same day I was sent out to the greengrocer's, and the woman said to me that she supposed I was not going to stop much longer in my place. "Why not?" I asked. "There isn't one girl in a thousand," said the woman, "as had live willingly in a haunted house. Why, Becky, it's the talk of the neighbourhood!" "All I can say is," I replied, "that I have heard nothing of it, and I don't think Mrs. Preedy has, either." "Ah," remarked the woman, "they say you must go abroad if you want to hear any news about yourself." My dear, the woman in the greengrocer's shop spoke the truth. Before the day was out, it was the talk of the neighbourhood, that both houses, Nos. 118 and 119 Great Porter Square, were haunted. When I went out last evening to write my first letter to you, I was told of it by half-a-dozen people, and the policeman himself (they are all friends of mine) made inquiries as to the time and shapes in which the ghostly visitants presented themselves. And to-day I have observed more than a dozen strangers stop before our house and point up to it, shaking their heads mysteriously. Mrs. Preedy opened the subject to me this evening. "Becky," she said, "there is no end to the wickedness of people." "That there isn't, mum," I replied, sympathetically. "Why, Becky," she exclaimed, "have _you_ heard what they are saying about the house?" "O, yes," I said, "everybody says its haunted." "Do _you_ believe it, Becky?" "Not me, mum!" (Observe my grammar, my dear.) "Not me! Who should know better than those that live in a house whether it's haunted or not?" "That's it, Becky," cried Mrs. Preedy, excitedly; "that's it. Who should know better than us? And I'm sure _I've_ never seen anything nor heard anything. Nor you either, Becky." "Nor me, neither," I replied. "But the worst of it is, mum, mud sticks. Give a dog a bad name, and you may as well hang him at once." Now, who spread this rumour about our house being haunted? Somebody, for sure, who has a motive in giving the place a bad reputation. There is never smoke without a fire. Shall I tell you who is the cause of all this? Richard Manx.