“In the dead of the night, when with labor oppressed, All mortals enjoy the sweet blessing of rest,” a phantom stood at Lucy's bedside and fingered her. She awoke with a violent scream, the first note of which pierced the night's dull ear, but the second sounded like a wail from a well, being uttered a long way under the bedclothes. “Hush! don't be a fool,” cried the affectionate phantom; and kneaded the uncertain form through the bedclothes; “fancy screeching so at sight of me!” Then gradually a single eye peeped timidly between two white hands that held the sheets ready for defense like a shield. “B--b--but you are all in white,” gulped Lucy, trembling all over; for her delicate fibers were set quivering, and could not be stilled by a word, fingered at midnight all in a moment by a shape. “Why, what color should I be--in my nightgown?” snapped the specter. “What color is yours?” and she gave Lucy a little angry pull--“and everybody else's?” “But at the dead of night, aunt, and without any warning--it's terrible. Oh dear!” (another little gulp in the throat, exceeding pretty). “Lucy, be yourself,” said the specter, severely; “you used not to be so selfish as to turn hysterical when your aunt came to you for advice.” Lucy had to do a little. “Forgive, blessed shade!” She apologized, crushed down her obtrusive, egotistical tremors, and vibrated to herself. Placable Aunt Bazalgette accepted her excuses, and opened the business that brought her there. “I didn't leave my bed at this hour for nothing, you may be sure.” “N--no, aunt.” “Lucy,” continued Mrs. Bazalgette, deepening, “there is a weight on my mind.” Up sat Lucy in the bed, and two sapphire eyes opened wide and made terror lovely. “Oh, aunt, what have you been doing? It is remorse, then, that will not let you sleep. Ah! I see! your flirtations--your flirtations--this is the end of them.” “My flirtations!” cried the other, in great surprise. “I never flirt. I only amuse myself with them.” * *In strict grammar this “them” ought to refer to “flirtations;” but Lucy's aunt did not talk strict grammar. Does yours? “You--never--flirt? Oh! oh! oh! Mr. Christopher, Mr. Horne, Sir George Healey, Mr. M'Donnell, Mr. Wolfenton, Mr. Vaughan--there! oh, and Mr. Dodd!” “Well, at all events, it's not for any of those fools I get out of my bed at this time of night. I have a weight on my mind; so do be serious, if you can. Lucy, I tried all yesterday to hide it from myself, but I cannot succeed.” “What, dear aunt?” “That your gown fits me ever so much better than my own.” She sighed deeply. Lucy smiled slyly; but she replied, “Is not that fancy?” “No, Lucy, no,” was the solemn reply; “I have tried to shut my eyes to it, but I can't.” “So it seems. Ha! ha!” “Now do be serious; it is no laughing matter. How unfortunate I am!” “Not at all. Take my gown; I can easily alter yours to fit me, if necessary.”