CAPTAIN MALISON'S BOX.

BY CLARA F. GUERNSEY.

[ILLUSTRATED BY W. L. SHEPPARD.]

CHAPTER IV.

ENDLESS, of course, was the gossip and the wonder-endless the surmises; but, perhaps, through Mrs. Marvin's means, the idea that the Captain was liable to sudden and violent fits of insanity grew up in the village, and this theory neither he nor Cecily thought it worth while to contradict.

There were other and darker conjectures-hints that Captain Malison had another wife, who had appeared on the bridal evening, and vanished suddenly, no one knew where. In preparation to receive his bride, Captain Malison had brought two respectable colored women from Boston. These women had been sent back the very morning that Cecily had returned to the parsonage; but it was reported that one of them had said that something strange had happened in the bridal-chamber, and that there was a guest in the house who had never been invited. This rumor, however, was altogether vague and unsubstantial, and had hardly more foundation than still wilder and altogether impossible stories. One report ran that Cecily had found out from Sejanus that her bridegroom had been a pirate, and had refused to live with him, while others added that the ghosts of those he had murdered on the high seas had rushed, in visible presence, into the bridal-chamber on the wings of a great blast of wind, which on the wedding-night had burst open the front door of the mansion. There were also whispers that the key to the mystery would be found in the chest of black oak, which, it was popularly believed, always stood under the Captain's bed, but no one was even prepared to affirm, from personal observation, that such a black chest existed, and conjecture was all in vain.

To Mr. Marvin, who thought it right to ask his neice if any deceit had been practised upon her in the matter of her marriage, both Cecily and the Captain declared in the most solemn manner that though, for reasons known only to themselves, they had agreed upon separation, yet that by the laws of God and the State they were man and wife, and that no living person could have had a right to forbid their union.

Mr. and Mrs. Marvin loyally making the best of matters, said that Mr. and Mrs. Malison were the proper judges of their own affairs; that, "under the circumstances," their friends approved of their course, and could give public curiosity no farther information.

Rebecca Reid was the only person who dared to question Cecily. When she had given a full report of the sayings of society about the mysterious affair of her cousin, Cecily gave her answer.

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Rebecca," she said, almost sternly, "if you ever address me on this subject again, I shall conclude that you wish to cease to be my friend, and shall never speak to you more.'

If Captain Malison had taken Cecily's little property and gone off to parts unknown, leaving her dependent on her friends, the good people would have understood that the poor girl had married an imposter, and would have pitied her accordingly; but, on the contrary, it was evident that the Captain provided almost lavishly for his wife. A large room at the parsonage, which Mr. Marvin had never been able to furnish, was fitted up for Cecily's use, with such carpets, curtains and furniture as had never been seen in B—. Mrs. Malison dressed with Quaker plainness, but her gowns were of the heaviest silks, and her ruffles and kerchiefs of Indian muslin and costly lace. Every day the carriage came for her use, and that of Mrs. Marvin; and Sejanus, invariably the messenger between this singular pair, always addressed her with the utmost respect as "mistress." The Captain, however, was never seen to accompany his wife in her drives and walks; and the only place they ever went in company was to meeting, where they occupied the same pew. Mr. and Mrs. Marvin, who could not help observing their niece closely, fancied that it was only during the Sunday services that Cecily lost the singular look of anxiety and watchfulness which was growing habitual to her face, and sadly altered its expression.

It was noticed, with some wonder, that no storm, no cold, however severe, ever kept the Captain and Mrs. Malison from church.

If Cecily had shut herself up from all society, if she had never been seen in the street, or had left the place, scandal, perhaps, might have found some excuse for attacking even her name, but when she re-appeared, after a little time, pale and changed, but still beautiful, ready as ever to take up the offices of neighborly kindness, receiving visitors and helping her aunt in household duties as before her marriage, falsehood itself was at a loss what to invent, and slander knew not where to insinuate blame.

Elam Reid, so far as was known, was the only person who dared openly to cast any aspersion on Mrs. Malison. This man's little soul had never quite forgiven Cecily for her refusal of his hand; and in the "store," the central gossip-shop for the men, he ventured to hint that the Captain had likely had good reason for sending his wife back to her friends, and that, for all their piety and demureness, some folks were not all they seemed.

How Elam's words were carried no one knew; but that very evening, accompanied by the Captain, or rather following him like a whipped hound, Elam re-entered the store, and before all there present made a most humble recantation, declaring that all he had said or insinuated was utterly false, and that there was no one for whom he entertained more respect than for Mrs. Malison. The means which had brought about this change of opinion were never distinctly known, but it was reported that the Captain had threatened to kill Elam outright if he did not make ample apology.

Every one on this occasion justified the Captain; and even Rebecca had no more favorable verdict for her husband than "served you right."

There was no little wonder as to what sort of life the Captain led in that great, lonely, old house. He received no company-he saw no one unless for the transaction of absolutely necessary business. Sejanus attended his master, and on all his affairs preserved an impenetrable silence. Hepzibah Long had been re-engaged to do such work as did not fall within the province of a manservant; but, to her own great disgust, she was never allowed to remain in the house after nightfall. Moreover, though she had free access to every other part of the mansion, she was never allowed to penetrate into the Captain's own chamber, Sejanus assuming to himself the whole care of the room, which, thus barred to all other approach, became, as it were, the source and centre of all the mystery and gloom which hung over the house. Perhaps it was to get amends of her perplexing employer that Hepzibah set afloat the stories which were whispered about the countryside-strange, vague rumors that some evil thing, whether in the body or out, no one could say, had gained possession of the Captain's body and soul, and bound him to its hated companionship. In what shape it appeared, or whence it came, no one pretended to tell, but all agreed that it held him in a strong bond, and that the soul of the man, enslaved by some strange compact to this haunting fiend, was fighting for its salvation between the powers of light and darkness. Certain it was that a lamp always burned through the night in the Captain's room, and it was averred that some one passing late at night had more than once beheld two shadows passing to and fro across the blind with lifted arms and wild gestures, as though some tragic scene were being enacted within.

It was also said that at such times Mrs. Malison could never rest, but that she would spend the whole night in prayer and supplication. True it was that her aunt had more than once found her in a sort of trance, as if, while present in the body, she were absent in the spirit. When she came to herself, after these seizures, though selfcontrolled and gentle as ever, she was always worn, exhausted and trembling, as might have been some martyr who had endured the rack, and the sight and touch of the executioner. The Captain visited his wife frequently, and spent most of his evenings in her parlor at the parsonage; but the two were never alone, either Mr. or Mrs. Marvin being always in the room-an arrangement sometimes inconvenient in a clerical household, as visitors often wished to see both the minister and his wife.

If such were the case, Cecily would either retire to her own room, or would go with her aunt to entertain the guests, generally bringing her husband with her.

On these occasions, no one not in the secret could have guessed the extraordinary relations that existed between the pair, so careful were they to refrain from all singularity of character, and so perfect appeared their understanding of each other's moods and wishes.

Under no circumstances, however, would they ever remain alone together, and Mr. and Mrs. Marvin noticed that none of the innocent familiarity or little caressing touches, such as might seem warranted even by long friendship, ever passed between the two, who yet seemed to live but for each other."

The minister and his wife had from the beginning refrained from questions which they felt to be useless, and had accepted the mystery as inevitable. Their first natural anger at the Captain had died away, and had been replaced by pity, and a very sincere friendship. In spite of his singular ways, and the sadness and shadow in which he lived, there was an attraction and lovableness about the man which it was not easy to resist; and while Cecily honored him and looked up to him, she yet seemed to feel for him a sort of protecting affection, like a mother's toward an afflicted son.

The Captain read aloud when the minister's eyes failed; he made, as it appeared, an effort to interest himself in the studies which filled Mr. Marvin's leisure; and there were books in the parsonage library which the pastor's income could never have procured.

It was a singular life which the pair led-a poor, pale ghost of that domestic joy and comfort to which they had doubtless looked forward. Yet it seemed to those who stood by that under all the suffering and strange anxiety which seemed to haunt their days was a growing peace, which anchored more and more firmly to some foundation beneath those waves of anguish by which their souls were too often tossed.

Many a time Mrs. Marvin lay awake weeping, to think that her child was passing the whole night in prayer and vigil, and longed to follow that beloved soul into the shadowy land where it went, when the body lay white and unconscious, until with weeping and trembling the spirit returned, as it seemed, from some battle-field, where all through the hours of darkness it had fought single-handed with some evil power.

Cecily had begged her aunt never to rouse her from those seizures, and Mrs. Marvin, concluding that where she knew nothing it was best to do nothing, left her to herself. After these fits, if such they were, she was always worn and exhausted, but a headache was sufficient excuse, and whatever she endured, it made no difference in her quiet path of daily usefulness and sweet good sense, and her mind, so far from failing, seemed to grow into strength and clearness that astonished her uncle.

Captain Malison's hair had become as white as snow; his face had grown old, and he looked like a man who endures patiently and bravely the anguish of some incurable disease.

The Captain's purse was always open to relieve distress, or promote any good cause; and where there was sickness or suffering his

wife was always to be found, as helpful and as sympathetic as Cecily Meadowes in her maiden days. There were threads of gray in her hair, and she was thin and worn; but for all the sad change, there grew upon her a singular beauty, and at times a light like that of heaven itself shone on her face.

This life had gone on for two years. Time had somewhat lessened the marvel, and the village--except when there was a stranger to hear the tale-had almost ceased to talk of the Captain and Mrs. Malison.

CHAPTER V.

ONE evening Mr. Marvin and his niece were sitting together in the room known as Cecily's parlor. This apartment had an outer door which opened upon a piazza, and it was by this door that the Captain generally entered the house. Mr. Marvin had been occupied with a lecture, which he was preparing to deliver before the recentlyorganized literary society of the village. He had chosen for his subject "The Domestic Life of Christianity and Paganism," a theme growing naturally out of his studies. Captain Malison had helped him in his researches, and far more material had been accumulated than could be used. The minister was greatly perplexed what to choose and what to leave out without danger of being superficiala thing so hateful to his soul that he was in fact quite unfit for a popular lecturer.

He had just been discoursing to Cecily about the manes, and the ghastly superstition which converted the dead into malignant powers, who, if not placated with altar and sacrifice, were hostile to the living; and he spoke of the traces of this belief, which, however driven into holes and corners, lingers even yet in a land of Bibles and common schools.*

"It is my own conjecture," said the clergyman, which yet I would not wish to assert without more absolute proof than the obscurity of the subject allows, that only that part of the human creature which was nearest allied to the evil powers of Hades, sometimes sacrificed to as the Diis Manibus, lingered on earth as inimical to their race, and that these strangely-imagined demons, not exactly, as we say, spirits, and yet not living bodies, had power to injure, proportioned to the malignity and wickedness of their natural lives."

"So that the more a man had given himself up to evil while living, the greater was his power while dead," said Cecily, without looking up from her work. "And what were the offerings made to these spectres?"

"In earlier times it is thought human victims were offered, and afterwards images of wax, animals, or even more innocent fruit and flowers. The day known in the Roman Church as the " Day of All Souls" is doubtless derived from the Pagan ideas on this subject, and the practices sometimes indulged in on Hallow Eve are relics of the old ceremonies."

"It is strange how prone humanity has been to worship the malevolent," said Cecily. "I suppose cowardice is at the bottom of it, but it is a pitiful superstition."

"If the world would leave off worshipping evil," said the minister, smiling a little sadly, "evil would lose half its force. There were hundreds of temples to Jove who had wished to destroy the human race, but just now I can remember only one temple to Prometheus, who saved them from the gift of fire from heaven."

Mr. Marvin returned to his papers, but the warmth of the room, and the measured click of Cecily's knitting-needles, gradually lulled him into a state that might not have been exactly sleep and yet could not possibly have been waking, or else he would not have dreamed what followed, and he certainly must have dreamed, the scene being too manifestly improbable to have taken place in the sober parsonage of B, and during the nineteenth century.

The wind had risen, and was howling round the house like a pack of wolves around a sheep-fold. The rain drove fiercely against the pane. It seemed to Mr. Marvin that on a sudden the outer door flew open before a blast, and that with the wind there entered a woman. It occurred to the minister in his vision that some wayfarer driven by the storm had sought shelter, and that this was also the idea in Cecily's mind, for as she rose to shut the door, she turned courteously to the stranger, as if to invite her to rest till the storm had passed; and here Mr. Marvin became dimly conscious, as one does in a nightmare, that some terrible necessity existed for his immediate action, and that yet he was unable to move hand or foot. Cecily, as soon as she looked at her visitor, seemed to be struck with something like indignation and loathing rather than terror, and, standing up, she confronted her strange guest with a singularly lofty air of command. The stranger was a little woman, slight and graceful as a cat. Her dress was singularly unfitted for a walk on such an evening, being of rich pale blue silk, made in the fashion of the last century, and leaving the neck and arms bare.

The figure and face of this unknown guest were frightfully emaciated, but on the skeleton neck and arms, and long fingers, and in her thin, faded hair, glittered and sparkled superb ornaments of jewels and gold. The face was colorless, wan and sunken, but intense life shone in the light blue eyes, where lurked an actual red spark, such as you may see in the eyes of a cat about to spring.

"It is a superstition?" is it, said this creature, nodding her head at Mrs. Malison, and speaking in a curious shrill half whisper. 'Perhaps it is, but here I am, you see, in the body, such as it is.

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The writer knows of an instance where a whole family, on the death of a neighbor, were thrown into great uneasiness for fear her ghost would return and persecute them, not at all on account of any personal enmity, but simply "because that was the way dead people always did."--C. F. G.

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This is All Souls Eve, mind you-All Souls!-the time when not only good, pious, respectable spirits may wander where they will, but when others-they that loved the world too well to leave it, though they were safely dead and buried-can walk and do mischief too."

The thing spoke with an indescribable, fierce, mocking malice, and as the minister heard it, he tried in vain to speak, or even think of a prayer.

"You needn't look at your respectable uncle, ma'am," continued the dream. He won't wake-not yet. This is my hour, look you! and I mean to use it, Miss Cecily Meadowes."

"My name is Cecily Malison," returned the other, with calm courage. "You can work your wretched will only so far as is per mitted you. For me, I do not fear you."

"Oh no!" said the woman, with a mocking laugh. "But what would you give to break the bond that holds him, and set him free to bury his treasure-chest, yonder, a fathom deep, or sink it in the sea ?"

"I would do anything lawful," said the other, though upon her face (as the pastor saw it in his sleep) there grew a look-half dread half hope.

"Lawful!" cried the stranger, with piercing shrillness. "Lawful! We are outside the realm of law-you and he, and I. Will you give up your life to the powers that are in me, and I of them? Is life so sweet to you that you dare not die for him? Why, your own creed, the phantom you cling to so desperately, in spite of reason and experience, tells you how good and acceptable were such a deed;" and, crouching like a wild animal, she seemed ready to fly at Cecily's throat.

"I would die to serve him," answered Cecily, in her steady, sweet voice, rather lower than before, "if it were possible that my death could serve him. But to you, and your world, I will never give one hair of my head as an offering, even were I assured that such a sacrifice could end our long endurance of pain. I will worship the Lord my God, and Him only will I serve. You and your cruelty are only for time, and time is short, but our love is for eternity." A wild gust of wind rushed through the open door, driving before it the rain and a few dead leaves that eddied through the room. With a start, Mr. Marvin came to himself, and found no one in the room but Cecily, who was trying to close the door against the raging wind. Her uncle came to her help, and succeeded in closing the door and drawing the bolt. There was a wet spot on the carpet, and Cecily brought a towel and basin, and began quietly to wipe off the water, but she soon left the task to her aunt, who entered from the kitchen, and sinking into the corner of the sofa, shaded her face with her hand. As she parted from her uncle that night, after prayers, she leaned for a moment upon his shoulder. "Uncle Josiah," she said, "it is my wedding-day."

"My child!-my poor child!" said the minister, pitying her. "Evil is very strong in this world," said Cecily, with a heavy sigh; "pray that I may endure to the end!" and then she lit her candle, and went quietly to her own room-to that strange watch which no one was allowed to share.

"It was a most uncomfortable nightmare," said the minister, when he told his dream to his wife. "I can easily understand how the superstitious can persuade themselves that such visions are realities." And indeed, if we were all to tell the things we have seen between sleeping and waking, who of us could not mention a ghost as vividly real as that very disagreeable creature which, producing itself from the study of heathenism, had played such a scene in the pastor's brain.

CHAPTER VI.

STILL more than a year had passed by, when Cecily received a letter from an old school-friend, who had married very young, and had gone with her husband to Boston. Cecily had lost sight of her for some years, but now she wrote to say that she was a widow, with one child, that she had fallen into a consumption, and, hoping to reach her native place, had left the city with her little girl, but that, at a town about sixty miles from B- her strength had failed her, and she knew that she could live but a few days longer, and that, having no other friend to turn to, she implored Cecily (for whom she had named her little girl) to come to her and take charge of the child.

"Would you like to have this little one, my dear?" said the Captain, to whom Cicely showed the letter immediately.

"I would rather not take her into the house just now," said Cecily, gently; but, if you do not object, I should like to go to poor Rhoda, and take care of the little girl until I can find her some comfortable home near by, where I can look after her, and have her with me at times."

"Can you go?" asked the Captain, turning from the light, and shading his face.

"I need not be absent more than a week. The distance need make no difference to us, you know," with a look, half-warning halfloving. "I feel as if it were a duty. Probably, with my help, Rhoda may be equal to the journey here, and my aunt, (who was very fond of her) wishes her to come to this house, where we can make her last days, at least, more comfortable."

"It shall be as you wish," said the Captain, with a sigh. "You shall take the carriage, and Sejanus shall go with you." Though Cecily rather demurred to this arrangement, it was finally settled that she should leave the next day, and return as soon as possible; the Captain willingly, and even eagerly, undertaking all the expense attendant on caring for Rhoda and her child.

That night, as they parted, for once Cecily's courage seemed to fail her, and, forgetting her usual studied reserve, she broke into a sudden flood of tears, and clung, sobbing, to her husband's neck, while he, hardly less moved, hung over her as if their parting were about to be final.

They said good-bye, however, the next morning, with their usual calmness, and Cecily drove away in the well-appointed carriage, with Sejanus on the box.

This man, who maintained toward all others an impenetrable reserve and coldness, always appeared to feel for his mistress a very sincere respect and affection. It was said that he alone knew the clue to the riddle, and it was certain that before Sejanus Cecily seemed to be less under the influence of that "shadow of a fear," which, as it were, shut her away partly from her nearest and dearest friends, into some cold and lonely world of mystery beyond the reach of help and sympathy.

It had been pleasant weather when Cecily left home, although it was the first of December.

The anniversary of her wedding-day, which always seemed to bring with it a certain nameless dread and anxiety, had passed without anything remarkable, unless it were that Hepzibah Long had taken that opportunity to issue a new tale of wonder, Hepzibah having a faculty of invention which might have made her eminent in literature. She said that, having lingered at her household work rather later than usual, she had heard the front door fly wide open, though the air was still, and, going into the hall, she had seen two shadowy female figures, one of which (she was ready to swear) was in the likeness of Mrs. Malison, flit up the broad staircase, and disappear in the echoing-room, where the Captain sat alone with whatever evil treasure was concealed in the black box.

Hepzibah's lively imagination, however, was well known, and as she added to this narrative various circumsuances-such as clanking chains, screams, red and blue fires, and other common-place ghostly concomitants-no one paid much attention to her legend.

Cecily had been gone but two days when a great snow-storm set in, and raged so fiercely that the roads were blocked up, and all travel was stayed, for, beside the storm, the thermometer ranged from five to ten below zero, and there was a wind which it seemed impossible that any one should face and live.

Cecily's friends had every reason to think that she had been safely housed before the storm began; but nevertheless they waited anxiously for the mails to get through, that they might know how she had sped on her errand.

Cecily had left B on Wednesday, and on the two following days the Captain paid his usual visit to the parsonage, but Sunday having passed without his making his appearance at church, or sending word, Mr. and Mrs. Marvin became anxious, and, in spite of the cold, the minister made his way through the deep drifts to the lonesome house that stood, with close-shut blinds, behind its sighing poplars and dark evergreens.

He was admitted by old Hepzibah, who seemed much pleased to see him.

"Well, I'm glad to see a Christian face," said Hepzibah, officiously brushing the snow from Mr. Marvin's shoes, "for the Captain's down sick. He was on the sofa, in the settin'-room, all day yesterday, but he wouldn't hardly let me come nigh hand of him, and this morning he hasn't got up, and he won't let me into his room, (he best knows why;) but I dare say he'll see you."

In his heart, Mr. Marvin was not quite sure of his reception; but when he had ascended the stairs, and announced himself at the closed door, Captain Malison's voice, in a tone of welcome, bade him come in.

The Captain was lying on the bed, though not undressed. He seemed to be suffering under a severe cold; but he greeted his friend as though such a visit had been an ordinary thing, though the pastor had never been in the house since before his niece's marriage.

Mr. Marvin, as he sat by the bed, looked around the room with some interest. It was handsomely though plainly furnished, and shadowed with crimson curtains. A lady's toilet-table stood in one corner of the room, and hung upon it was the lace veil Cecily had worn at her wedding, and, thrown down carelessly before the glass, a white ribbon, a pair of white gloves, a few hair-pins, and withered spray of orange-blossom.

The minister's heart ached as he noticed these poor relics of Cecily's brief sojourn under her husband's roof- relics which had, apparently, been kept with jealous care. Mr. Marvin thought that the exclusion of Hepzibah from the room might easily be explained without accusing the Captain of unlawful practices; as it was very natural that he should not care to have the eyes of such a prying, tattling person as the housekeeper rest upon these poor treasures. As to the mysterious black box, it was nowhere visible, unless it were to be identified with a small sea-chest of dark oak, bound with brass, which stood near the head of the bed-such a box as a retired sailor might keep as a remembrance of his old life at sea.

The Captain insisted on coming down stairs, and appeared to take pleasure in seeing that everything was done for the comfort of his guest. They spoke of Cecily, and, for a time, it almost seemed to Mr. Marvin as if Captain Malison wished to break through his long reserve, and that he had almost resolved to give his confidence to one in whose friendship and devotion he had certainly every reason to trust. But the half-formed resolution, if such there were, passed away, and the secret remained untold.

Mr. Marvin wished to call the doctor, but the Captain would not consent, and the pastor spent most of the afternoon with his friend. According to the comfortable Christian fashion of pastoral visitation,

before he went away he read and prayed with the invalid, who seemed to find comfort in his ministrations.

The next morning, however, he found the patient much worse, and was shocked to learn from Hepzibah that he had, as usual, passed the night alone in the house.

The Captain's symptoms became so alarming, that Mr. Marvín sent at once for the doctor and for his wife. Mrs. Marvin, putting aside a certain reluctance which she felt to cross that threshold, came immediately, together with the physician, but, in spite of all that could be done, it soon became evident that the Captain was sinking fast.

He seemed to be sensible of his own condition, and asked that a messenger might be dispatched for his wife. This had already been done; but the blocked state of the roads made it almost impossible that, even if the messenger succeeded in reaching her, Mrs. Malison could return in time.

The Captain had at first shown an almost feverish eagerness and anxiety for his wife's arrival, but seeing, at last, that it could not be, he appeared to resign himself to the inevitable with that resolute patience which had always been a leading trait in his singular character. He gave Mr. Marvin directions about his business with great clearness and precision, and directed that nothing belonging to him should be touched until Cecily's return, saying that his wife and Sejanus knew best what were his wishes.

It was between midnight and cockerow when, having finished what he had to say, he fell into a troubled sleep. Mr. Marvin remained sitting beside the bed, and his wife (whose anxiety would not allow her to rest in the chamber provided by Hepzibah's care) soon stole noiselessly into the room, and took her place in a great arm-chair near the fire, where, however, she soon fell asleep. To tell the truth, the clergyman was not sorry that she should be a companion of his watch.

He was rather a nervous person-that is to say, his senses were acute and his brain sensitive-and he began, much to his own annoyance, to fancy that he heard in the room various rustlings and whisperings, like the light sweep of invisible drapery, or half-articulate voices in some unknown tongue. The pastor was vexed at himself for being disturbed by these sounds, which, his reason told him, were only the breathings of the wind in the great, empty mansion, or the light motion of the curtains.

Suddenly a blast rose, and flew round the house with a long, moaning cry, and, as the shadows flickered on the wall, it seemed to Mr. Marvin that some shapeless blackness gathered in the room, and the sleeper moaned and tossed, as though in an evil dream. The pastor felt a nameless sensation of chill and loathing, as the shadow fell, darker and darker, and began, as it were, to draw itself into some dim outline-indistinct only where two red gleams suggested the eyes of some wild beast. The next moment it grimaced, cowered, shook and vanished, and before a gust, which seemed to originate rather within than without, the door swung wide, and with a scream the wind fled away and died, sobbing, in the distance. There was a long, low sigh of intense relief, and (rather felt than seen) some presence either passed from the room or receded into that region behind the barriers into which human senses cannot penetrate.

Mrs. Marvin woke with a sudden start. "I dreamed Cecily was here," she said; "I wish she were."

The Captain roused himself, and, to Mr. Marvin's surprise, (for he had become very weak,) he sat upright on the bed, wrapped in a robe de chambre; for he had refused during his illness to be undressed.

"It is the end," he said, with a bright, soft smile. "It is over. Only one thing more: let me be buried as I am, without changing the clothes I wear. Thank you, both, for all your kindness and patience. At last! at last! God has delivered me, by the hand of his angel, from the power of death and hell!" and, leaning his head on the minister's shoulder, he breathed his last without a sigh.

Mr. Marvin was too much overcome to remain in the room, while the doctor and a young divinity-student (his brother) undertook to prepare the body for the grave.

Perhaps the pastor, in his own and his wife's agitation, did not remember the Captain's last, singular request, and, if he had, the wish expressed was so abhorrent to all the ideas of the place and time, that the minister would not have felt himself bound where, indeed, he had made no promise.

Mr. and Mrs. Marvin were sitting in the room below the chamber of death when they were startled by a sudden crash, and an exclamation, above, and in a few moments the divinity-student entered, pale and startled, and begged Mr. Marvin to come up stairs. He was gone some time, while his wife sat below, half-fearing that some new calamity was to close the long tragedy of the Captain's life. She heard steps to and fro, and then a sound of hammering-a singular noise to break the silence in a chamber of death.

In about half-an-hour, her husband re-entered, and, sinking in a seat, begged her, in a faint voice, to get him a glass of wine-a most unusual circumstance in itself, for the minister was an enthusiastic water-drinker. As he seemed to recover in some degree, his wife begged him to tell her what was the matter-was there bad news of Cecily?

"No, my dear; she is well, as far as I know, poor girl!" and then he told her, in a few words, what he had been called to see.

The reason of the Captain's dying request had been made plain when the attendants had laid out the body. It bore many scars; marks of bullets and sword-cuts, and also, it seemed, of cruel scourg ing, (who could guess when or how endured?) and round the wrists and ankles were deep traces, as of galling fetters long worn,

However astonished at this discovery, the two gentlemen had continued their office, during which it became necessary to move out the bedstead from the wall. For that purpose the doctor had dragged aside the oaken chest. In so doing, it struck sharply against the bedstead, and whether it was that the hinges were rusty or the lock worn, certain it is that the lid cracked sharply from its place, and falling, revealed a scull and a heap of bones, which the doctor, on examination, declared to be a partly disjointed female skeleton. These wretched remains lay as if wrapped hastily in the torn fragments of a pale-blue silken robe, and among them glittered splendid jewels in antique setting of gold.

"And Mary," concluded the minister, lowering his voice as he ended his strange story, "on one clenched finger of the hand was Cecily's first wedding-ring."

"Impossible!" said Mrs. Marvin, growing pale. "There must be two alike."

"No, my dear," said the minister, in the tone of one forced to believe what reason would fain reject; "the Captain showed it to me before he gave it to Cecily, and I remember the little dent on one side, and the place where the stone was missing."

"And what did you do with it? I am sure I would not touch it for the world."

"Nor I, either," said the pastor, with a nervous shiver; "I left it where it was."

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heard to say (by some one not specified) that, in a lonely hollow, they had seen a demon, in the likeness of a gigantic negro, tending a mighty fire, which he had piled up around a black box, and while the fire burned they heard screams and wild cries, like the wind in a storm, although the air was perfectly still. Shortly after his master's death, Sejanus disappeared from B- -, and Mrs. Malison said that he gone to his native place, Jamaica.

Cecily caused her husband's house to be sold, and remained with her uncle and aunt, devoting herself to them and the child she had adopted, a pretty and intelligent little girl, who repaid her care with grateful affection. She seldom mentioned the Captain's name; but though her sorrow was deep, it was not like sorrow without hope, and her aunt and uncle could not but think that their niece was like one who composes himself to rest and peace after long strife and suffering, the strain of which passes, though its traces remain forever. As time passed on, however, Cecily regained something of her former self; perhaps because her rest was no longer broken by those vigils and trances, which ceased entirely on her widowhood. She lived for several years, beloved and respected; but before her adopted parents were called away, Cecily fell into a decline, which, running its course with unusual rapidity, soon made it evident that she was not long for this world.

One evening she lay on her bed in her own old room. It was her wedding-day, but neither she nor Mrs. Marvin, who sat by her, and

The doctor and the divinity-student (a most discreet and reticent young man) had readily agreed that these singular circumstances were best kept quiet, and had nailed up the box. No sense of honor, however, bound old Hepzibah, who had some way managed to possess herself of the whole, and she sent the story flying around the country, where it gathered so many additional particulars, that most reasonable people refused to believe that it had any foundation in fact.

The state of the roads was such that Mrs. Malison found it impossible to reach B- until the very day of the funeral. Years after, the messenger who carried the news of her husband's death declared that he was fully convinced that she had known and endured the first agony of her grief before his arrival.

With the exception of a legacy to Mr. Marvin and one to Sejanus, the Captain had left his whole property (much greater than any one had supposed) to his wife. His affairs were all in perfect order; but among his papers, which Cecily went over with her uncle, there was absolutely nothing which threw any light upon the Captain's past life, and if his story was known to his wife, she preserved entire silence on the subject to the end of her days.

No one knew what became of the box; but Hepzibah declared that one dark night either Sejanus, or the devil in his likeness, had carried it away from the house, and buried it in some lonely place among the woods. To confirm this tale, she averred that certain charcoal burners, who pursued their trade among the hills, had been

who well remembered the date, had made the slightest allusion to the past. It was the placid close of a late Indian summer, and the window was open to admit the sweet misty air.

Cecily had lain silent for some time, and her aunt thought her asleep. The twilight was gathering in the room, when suddenly she started up, and held out her arms with a low, rapturous cry, as of welcome.

"My love! oh my love! I am coming!" and fell back, having entered into that "fullness of life" which has no need of our mortal shape and senses.

Every one noticed the perfect peace that rested on Mrs. Malison's face as she lay in her coffin; but no one but the pastor and his wife knew that on the hand that rested above the still heart had been placed (who could say how or when?) the ring with which she had first been wed.

THE END.

A CURIOUS mode of fish-hatching is said to be followed in China. Having collected the necessary spawn from the water's edge, the fishermen place a certain quantity in an empty hen's egg, which is sealed up with wax and put under a sitting hen. After some days they break the egg and empty the fry into water well warmed by the sun, and there nurse them until they are sufficiently strong to be turned into a lake or river.