One has had a tiring day’s shooting. One is looking forward to one’s bed. As one opens the door, however, a ghostly laugh comes from behind the bed-curtains, and one groans inwardly, knowing what is in store for one: a two or three hours’ talk with rowdy old Sir Lanval—he of the lance. We know all his tales by heart, and he will shout them. Suppose our aunt, from whom we have expectations, and who sleeps in the next room, should wake and overhear! They were fit and proper enough stories, no doubt, for the Round Table, but we feel sure our aunt would not appreciate them:—that story about Sir Agravain and the cooper’s wife! and he always will tell that story. Or imagine the maid entering after dinner to say— “Oh, if you please, sir, here is the veiled lady.” “What, again!” says your wife, looking up from her work. “Yes, ma’am; shall I show her up into the bedroom?” “You had better ask your master,” is the reply. The tone is suggestive of an unpleasant five minutes so soon as the girl shall have withdrawn, but what are you to do? “Yes, yes, show her up,” you say, and the girl goes out, closing the door. Your wife gathers her work together, and rises. “Where are you going?” you ask. “To sleep with the children,” is the frigid answer. “It will look so rude,” you urge. “We must be civil to the poor thing; and you see it really is her room, as one might say. She has always haunted it.” “It is very curious,” returns the wife of your bosom, still more icily, “that she never haunts it except when you are down here. Where she goes when you are in town I’m sure I don’t know.” This is unjust. You cannot restrain your indignation. “What nonsense you talk, Elizabeth,” you reply; “I am only barely polite to her.” “Some men have such curious notions of politeness,” returns Elizabeth. “But pray do not let us quarrel. I am only anxious not to disturb you. Two are company, you know. I don’t choose to be the third, that’s all.” With which she goes out. And the veiled lady is still waiting for you up-stairs. You wonder how long she will stop, also what will happen after she is gone. I fear there is no room for you, ghosts, in this our world. You remember how they came to Hiawatha—the ghosts of the departed loved ones. He had prayed to them that they would come back to him to comfort him, so one day they crept into his wigwam, sat in silence round his fireside, chilled the air for Hiawatha, froze the smiles of Laughing Water.