“Lor, yes, Miss Newton,” answered one of the girls briskly: “we’re all of us too busy to worry about ghosts; but I love a ghost tale for all that.” A chorus of voices echoed this assertion. “Then, ladies, I shall have the honour of reading the ‘Haunters and the Haunted,’ by Bulwer Lytton.” The very title of the story thrilled them, and the whole party, just now so noisy with eager talk and frequent laughter, sat breathless, looking at the reader with awe-stricken eyes as that wonderful story slowly unwound itself. Theodore read well, in that subdued and semi-dramatic style which is best adapted to chamber-reading. He felt what he read, and the horror of the imaginary scene was vividly before his eyes as he got deeper into the story. The reading lasted nearly two hours, but it was not one moment too long for Theodore’s audience, and there was a sigh of regret when the last words of the story had been spoken. “Well,” exclaimed one young lady, “I do call that a first-class tale, don’t you, Miss Newton?” “You may go a long way without getting such a ghost tale as that,” said another; “and don’t the gentleman read beautifully, and don’t he make one feel as if it was all going on in this very room? And the dog too! There, I never see such a thing! A poor dog to drop down dead, like that.” “I did hope that there dog would come to life again at the end,” said one damsel. By way of diversion after the story, Miss Newton opened her piano, beckoned three of the girls over to her, and played the symphony of “Blow, Gentle Gales,” which old-fashioned glee the three girls sang with taste and discretion, the bass part being altered to suit a female voice. Then came some songs, all of which Miss Newton accompanied; and then at her request Theodore read again, this time selecting Holmes’ “Wonderful One-Horse Shay,” which caused much laughter; after which, the little clock on the chimney-piece having struck eleven, he wished his hostess good night, selected his coat and hat from among the heap of jackets and hats on a table on the landing, and went downstairs. He was still in Wedgewood Street when he heard light footsteps coming quickly behind him. It seemed to him that they were trying to overtake him, so he turned and met the owner of the feet. “I beg your pardon, sir; forgive me for following you,” said a very gentle voice, which he recognized as belonging to the girl called Marian—“I wanted so much to speak to you—alone.” “And I am glad of the opportunity of speaking to you,” he answered. “I felt particularly interested in you this evening—there are some faces, you know, which interest us in spite of ourselves almost, and I felt that I should like to know more of you.” This was so gravely said that there was no possibility of an offensive construction being given to the words. “You are very good, sir. It was your name that struck me,” she answered, falteringly; “it is a Dorsetshire name, I think.”