“There’s nothing the matter with me, Mrs. Klopton,” I rebelled. “I was only thinking out loud. Confound that cloth: it’s trickling all over me!” I gave it a fling, and heard it land with a soggy thud on the floor. “Thinking out loud is delirium,” Mrs. Klopton said imperturbably. “A fresh cloth, Euphemia.” This time she held it on with a firm pressure that I was too weak to resist. I expostulated feebly that I was drowning, which she also laid to my mental exaltation, and then I finally dropped into a damp sleep. It was probably midnight when I roused again. I had been dreaming of the wreck, and it was inexpressibly comforting to feel the stability of my bed, and to realize the equal stability of Mrs. Klopton, who sat, fully attired, by the night light, reading _Science and Health_. “Does that book say anything about opening the windows on a hot night?” I suggested, when I had got my bearings. She put it down immediately and came over to me. If there is one time when Mrs. Klopton is chastened—and it is the only time—it is when she reads _Science and Health_. “I don’t like to open the shutters, Mr. Lawrence,” she explained. “Not since the night you went away.” But, pressed further, she refused to explain. “The doctor said you were not to be excited,” she persisted. “Here’s your beef tea.” “Not a drop until you tell me,” I said firmly. “Besides, you know very well there’s nothing the matter with me. This arm of mine is only a false belief.” I sat up gingerly. “Now—why don’t you open that window?” Mrs. Klopton succumbed. “Because there are queer goings-on in that house next door,” she said. “If you will take the beef tea, Mr. Lawrence, I will tell you.” The queer goings-on, however, proved to be slightly disappointing. It seemed that after I left on Friday night, a light was seen flitting fitfully through the empty house next door. Euphemia had seen it first and called Mrs. Klopton. Together they had watched it breathlessly until it disappeared on the lower floor. “You should have been a writer of ghost stories,” I said, giving my pillows a thump. “And so it was fitting flitfully!” “That’s what it was doing,” she reiterated. “Fitting flitfully—I mean flitting fitfully—how you do throw me out, Mr. Lawrence! And what’s more, it came again!” “Oh, come now, Mrs. Klopton,” I objected, “ghosts are like lightning; they never strike twice in the same night. That is only worth half a cup of beef tea.” “You may ask Euphemia,” she retorted with dignity. “Not more than an hour after, there was a light there again. We saw it through the chinks of the shutters. Only—_this time it began at the lower floor and climbed!_” “You oughtn’t to tell ghost stories at night,” came McKnight’s voice from the doorway. “Really, Mrs. Klopton, I’m amazed at you. You old duffer! I’ve got you to thank for the worst day of my life.” Mrs. Klopton gulped. Then realizing that the “old duffer” was meant for me, she took her empty cup and went out muttering.