Mr. J. S. Campbell and his lady becoming after some years thoroughly disgusted, abandoned the place, and so swiftly, I many years after, about forty years ago, found a book belonging to the family in the disused dining-room. I heard from one of the family to-day who own this lovely property now, and use it as a summer residence (Mrs. Rankin of Dorchester street), that a caretaker had been left in charge of the property; if so, his conscience must have been very lax, for it was the custom of all those giving picnics at Kamouraska, who wished to do so, to use the house as well as the grounds, and to simply walk in at open doors and take temporary possession. Well, on one occasion my father-in-law’s family had a kind of picnic, but, though going up to the Campbell grounds, had brought their provisions to a neat little wayside inn a short distance, from the mill and wharf built by the aforesaid J. S. Campbell; and as I always preferred a quiet read to those excursions (I fear I am naturally rather lazy), I said I would await their return at the small hotel—its quiet and cleanliness were very inviting. "But," said Mr. McP. (I think I hear the words as he addressed me often in fun), "Mistress Charlotte, if you stay behind, you are responsible for the dinner." I promised in good faith, and with a firm resolve of doing my duty, that all should be in order on their return, and, telling the landlady at what hour lunch must be ready, made arrangements for an hour of delightful repose, by ensconcing myself into the most cosy of sofas with an interesting novel. As the old grandmother’s clock tolled forth the midday hour, it struck me I had better see how the dinner was progressing for the hungry folks expected soon. Fortunately, I did not delay, for, to my dismay, I found the lamb-chops put to boil, and the green peas frying in the frying-pan. By hastily changing their positions, I managed matters so as to disguise my carelessness, and so all was well that ends well. A thoroughly respectable house like the Campbell House, of Pointe Sèche, could not be without its ghost, and it’s doubly guaranteed by having two of them: one a lady who is heard to moan and sob and say she was shut up from every one (it is presumed Mrs. C., who, instead of dying of ennui and country fare, took the more sensible plan of returning to England); the other, the apparition of a gentleman, supposed to have been murdered because he disappeared—a rejected suitor put on board a vessel by Mr. C. for making too violent love to a cousin and quarrelling with a more favored lover. I have exorcised several ghosts already, and would like to try my observations on those inhabitants of a higher, or, more likely, our earthly sphere, to whom the unoccupancy of this fine mansion might be a convenience. *LES EBOULEMENTS.*