While I was gazing at the heap of rags, which, by the by, was in a dim and dusky room, I thought I saw something rise up in the midst, looking very much like the skinny visage of a very thin, old woman, about to speak. I approached the bin, and looked steadily at the grisly image――but, on closer inspection, it appeared to be only an old rag, which had, accidentally, assumed the questionable shape I have described. I proceeded to examine the several processes of the mill, and great was my admiration at seeing their magical result. I discovered that the rags of any hue, being put into a vat, were bleached as white as the “driven snow;” that they were then reduced to a kind of pulp, as soft as paste; that this, being mixed with water, produced a liquid like milk; that this liquid passed over a wire cloth, through which the water oozed, leaving a thin, white, even scum, which, settling upon the wire cloth, formed the sheet of paper. I looked on this beautiful process with wonder and delight. I saw the sheet of paper pass over several cylinders, gradually becoming firmer and firmer, by pressure and heat, until, at last, I could see it coiled up, smooth, white and polished, and several hundred yards in length. I then saw it unrolled, and, by a simple machine, cut into sheets, ready to be sent to market. I have never seen any manufacture which seemed to me no admirable. When I left the mill, I sauntered along the banks of the river, which turned the wheels of the mill. The place was shady, and, it being summer, I sat down. While I was there, a pretty, black-eyed girl came along, and I beckoned her to me. She came smiling, and we fell into conversation. She asked me to go to her house, and being introduced to her parents, they gave the old man some food, and treated him kindly. “Will you tell me a story?” said the little girl. “I will write you one,” said I――and so we parted. For some weeks I forgot my promise, when I received a note from the black-eyed girl, refreshing my memory on this point. At evening I sat down to write the tale: but, instead of writing, a drowsiness stole over me, and I fell into a dream. Methought I was at my writing-desk, when I heard a rustling amid a heap of papers on my table, and presently something rose up, and assumed precisely the appearance of the rag in the bin of the paper-mill, which had seemed to me so much like a haggish old woman. A sort of strange fear came over me. I could now see the distinct features of a face, though the general aspect of the horrid visage was that of an old calico rag. There was a long, thin, crooked nose; deep, twinkling, tallow-colored eyes; a pointed chin, and a mouth that seemed capable of uttering unutterable things.