While Patricia's benefactress gave her message the circle of ghosts was making way for the other Knickerbockers to enter. On closer inspection, many of them proved to be tame sort of animals enough. From a distance one monster of a woman had given the impression that she was trying to bully posterity. Perhaps this was due to the long feathers in her head-dress, that nodded maliciously at her most placid motion. As she bowed to her descendants a plume tickled the tip of Jonathan's nose and he jumped back slightly. "I am Melodia Mudford Makemie," she said, "and I thought you would like to meet me, as I started the Christmas fashion of giving hot-bag covers in York." "Hot-bag covers!" reiterated Miss Georgina, astonished. "I have always said mittens. Why, in my ancestry book it is noted that in the year 1768 you gave one hundred pairs of silk mittens to Gruel Hall, the home for tiresome gentlewomen." "The years play great hoaxes," chuckled the ghost. "Those ancestry books are a standard joke with us, and I believe they are looked upon with some suspicion in your own world." Melodia seemed so friendly, Julie gained courage enough to purse up her lips for a speech, but the shade anticipated her. "I know what you are going to ask--why did I make such a wide frill about the bottle's neck? 'Tis easy to explain. I never took my bag to church to warm my hands--'twas my stomach!" "Oh!" said Miss Julie, faltering slightly, fearing that this relative might become vulgar like the terrible Gobies still dancing about Lord Cornbury. "Yes," continued the other, "when William fell asleep during the sermon I used to sink down well in the pew, put the frill up to my mouth, squeeze the end of the bag, and get as much as a dram of whiskey." "Oh!" exclaimed Julie, aghast; "a hot-water bag for whiskey!" "Why not?" said the ghost, angrily. Her manner was that of one who had expected commendation for her cleverness. The plumes in her head-dress were shaking violently. "Why not, miss?" she asked again. "You are far too nice. At any rate you know the reason for those tomfool bag-covers. 'Twas to deaden the smell of liquor. Your generation of Yorkers does not appreciate them as we did." Then her voice broke into derisive sniggers, as she glided away. And now upon the strange company fell the bellowing of some faithful passing watchman. "Midnight's here and fair weather!" A sleepy cock crowed in a distant Chelsea barn. The faces of the shades began to blanch and assume the lack-lustre tint of ashes. The lady of the banished portrait touched Patricia as if giving her a last embrace, and her smile at Richard Sheridan was full of good wishes. "Do you consent to the marriage," she whispered, bending over Jonathan, "or shall we come to-morrow night?" "I do," he answered hoarsely. "Then we go in peace," sighed the ghost.