“At length all became perfectly still in the house. The landlord ventured to raise his head, and to steal a glance at the chair by the door; but, behold, the ghost was gone! Sober reason began to resume its power. The poor girl was brought to herself after a good deal of shaking. In a short time, they plucked up sufficient courage to quit the bed-room, and to commence an examination of the house, which they expected to find in great disorder. Nor were their anticipations unfounded. The whole house had been stripped by artful thieves, and the gentleman had decamped without paying for his lodging. It turned out that he was no other than an accomplice of the notorious Arthur Chambers, who was executed at Tyburn in 1706; and that the supposed corpse was this arch rogue himself, who had whitened his hands and face with chalk, and merely counterfeited death. About midnight he quitted the coffin, and appeared to the maid in the kitchen. When she flew up stairs, he softly followed her, and, seated, at the door of the chamber, he acted as a sentinel, so that his industrious accomplices were enabled to plunder the house without the least molestation.” [GHOST STORIES.] [Illustration: 327] THE CLOAKS. The following tale is taken from a work by M. Loeve Veimars, entitled ‘Les Manteaux.’ The scene is laid in Germany, and the story opens with the election of a magistrate of the little city of Birling. Full of his new dignity, he repairs to his home, where he acquaints his patient wife, to whom he is in the habit of playing the tyrant, with the accession to his importance. His old friend, Waldau, the town clerk, comes to ask him if he has any commands for Felsenbourg, the seat of the administration, whither he is about to repair. The new councillor requests him to deliver a letter to his younger brother, Maurice, who had quitted his home suddenly, and of whom he has heard nothing until very recently, and who has now applied to him for a share of their father’s property, or some pecuniary assistance. The answer of the elder brother is at once unsatisfactory and unfeeling: he tells him that their parent died without any fortune, and concludes with a sneer at his youthful irregularities. The councillor’s amiable spouse is affected by her husband’s cruelty; Waldau’s dress is more consistent with his scanty means than adapted to the inclemency of the weather, and she expresses a hope that his travelling costume is a warmer one. ‘Alas! no,’ replies Waldau; ‘I had a cloak, but I have given it to my grandmother, who is confined to her arm-chair with the gout, and I am in truth, setting off like the prodigal son.’ ‘Dear Philip,’ said Marie to her husband, in a supplicating tone, ‘lend him yours.’ ‘Mine!’ replied the councillor, ‘indeed I cannot; but my late father’s is somewhere upstairs, and I will look it out for you, Waldau.’