be by no means the oddest thing ever known, if Messrs. Hume and Foster and Davenport were possessed of supernatural faculties. But, because many unaccountable things are true, that is no reason why I should believe a thing simply because it is unaccountable. Then I am told that, admitting as I do the theoretical possibility of Spiritualism being true, I ought to devote myself to the investigation of it truth, because, if true, the discovery is so important a one. Now, there are a score of sects in the world who each profess that, only by adhering to their tenets can I, or any other human being, avoid everlasting misery. Nothing can be more important than this, if true; and yet I ask, is any reasonable man bound to investigate the claims of Johanna Southcote to divinity or of Joe Smith to inspiration? Life is not long enough to investigate every new theory that is started either about this world or the next.

Then, as a last argument, I am constantly asked how I account for the belief entertained in Spiritualism by many men of distinction and eminence and talent far greater than ninety-nine persons out of a hundred can ever pretend to. Now, I grant, as I did at starting, that the adherence of some of these persons to their new creed is a serious puzzle to me. Still, in every spiritualistic believer I have known, I have observed, or fancied that I observed, some predisposing cause which accounted more or less for his or her conversion. Moreover, my experience

-as I think that of any one connected with journalism-has led me to perceive how utterly untrustworthy is the evidence even of honest men about facts which fall under their own observation. There are plenty of men in the world, happily, who tell the truth; there are many also who tell the whole truth; but the number of those who tell "nothing but the truth" is very small. I remember once, in the early days of table-turning, having tried the experiment of turning a table in the company of a lady, now dead. Of all persons I have ever known, she was, I think, one of the most truthful. I believe that, sooner than tell a lie, even on the most trivial matter, she would have suffered martyrdom. The table undoubtedly turned, and the lady in question-not herself, by the way, a believer in Spiritualismdeclared positively she had not pressed it. Yet I happened to be watching her fingers all the time, and, if ever I saw pressure distinctly shown by the tension of the muscles, it was in the case I allude to. I merely mention this instance to show, that the fact that I distrust the stories told me of their own experiences by friends of my own, does not imply any disbelief on my part in their intentional veracity. All I demand is that, if I am to believe a table jumps of its own accord, I must require some less suspicious evidence than that afforded me by the manifestations vouchsafed through the medium of the various operators I have witnessed in my lifeincluding the Davenport Brothers.

CHAPTER LIII.

FEEDS THE BOAR AT THE OLD FRANK ?

THE pleasant summer passed away, and Gerty found to her terror that the days when she dared creep out into the sun with Baby, and warm herself under the

cruel English winter was settling down once more, and that she and her little one would have to pass it together in the great house alone.

At first atter George's departure people continued to call; but Gerty never returned their visits, and before the later nights of September began to grow

Sir George was abroad; and very soon afterwards Lady Tattle found out that Lady Hillyar was mad, my dear, and that Sir George had refused to let her go into an asylum, but had generously given up Stanlake to her and her keeper. That florid grey-headed man saw driving with her in Croydon was the keeper. Such stories. did they make about poor Gerty and Mr. Compton; which stories, combined with Gerty's shyness, ended in her being left entirely alone before autumn was well begun.

whom we

Soon after Sir George's departure Mr. Compton heard from him on business, and a very quiet business-like letter he wrote. He might be a very long time absent, he said, and therefore wished these arrangements to be made. The most valuable of the bricabrac was to be moved from Grosvenor-place to Stanlake; Lady Hillyar would select what was to be brought away, and then the house was to be let furnished. The shooting on the Wiltshire and Somersetshire estates was to be let if possible. The shooting at Stanlake was not to be let, but Morton was to sell all the game which was not required for the house by Lady Hillyar. Mr. Compton would also take what game he liked. He wished the rabbits killed down: Farmer Stubble, at Whitespring, had been complaining. The repairs requested by Farmer Stubble were to be done at once, to the full extent demanded; and so on in other instances-yielding quietly, and to the full, points he had been fighting for for months. At last he came to Stanlake. Stanlake was to be kept up exactly in the usual style. Not a servant discharged. Such horses as Lady Hillyar did not require were to be turned out, but none sold, and none bought, except un der her ladyship's directions. He had written to Drummonds, and Lady Hillyar's cheques could be honoured. There was a revolution here (Paris), but how the dickens it came about, he, although on the spot, couldn't make out. There were no buttons here such as Lady Hillyar wished for; but, when he got to Vienna,

her from that place and put her in possession of facts. She might, however, rely that, if money could get them, she should have them.

He did not write one word to Gerty. · His old habits were coming back fastamong others, that of laziness. Boswell, enlarging on a hastily expressed opinion of Johnson's, tries to make out the ghastly doctrine that all men's evil habits return to them in later life. What Boswell says is, possibly, no matter-although he was not half such a fool as it has pleased my Lord Macaulay to make him out; yet there is a horrible spice of truth in this theory of his, which makes it noticeable. Whether Boswell was right or not in general, he would have been right in particular if he had spoken of Sir George Hillyar; for, from the moment he cut the last little rope which bound him to his higher life, his old habits began flocking back to him like a crowd of black pigeons.

The buttons came from Vienna, and a letter. The letter was such a kind one that she went singing about the house for several days, and Mr. Compton, coming down to see her, was delighted and surprised at the change in her. After Sir George's departure, the poor little woman had one of her periodical attacks of tears, which lasted so long that she got quite silly, and Mr. Compton and the housekeeper had been afraid of her going mad. But she had no return of tearfulness after the letter from Vienna, but set cheerfully to work to garrison her fortress against the winter.

She would have had a few trees cut down for firewood in the Australian manner, had not the steward pointed out to her ladyship the inutility and extravagance of such a proceeding. She therefore went into coals to an extent which paralysed the resources of the coal merchant, who waited on her, and with tears in his eyes begged her not to withdraw her order, but to give him time; that was all he asked for -time. The next thing she did was, by Baby's advice, to lay in a large

immense number of cheap novels. And, when all this was done, she felt that she could face the winter pretty comfortably.

Stanlake was a great, solemn, greywhite modern house, with a broad flagged space all round, standing in the centre of the park, but apart from any trees: the nearest elm being a good hundred yards away, though the trees closed in at a little distance from the house, and hid the landscape. It was a very dreary place even in summer; in winter, still more solemn and desolate. When it had been filled with company there had been noise and bustle enough perhaps, but, now that Gerty was left in solitary state, silence seemed to settle down and brood on it the whole day long. In the morning, when the men were washing the horses, there would be some pleasant sounds from the stable-yard; but, when they had done-except when a dog barked in the distant kennel, or the rooks made a faint sound in the distant rookery-perfect stillness seemed to reign over everything.

Within, all was endless gallery opening into library, library into dining-room, dining-room into drawing-room, till the astonished visitor found that he had gone round the house and come back to the hall again. The drawing-rooms were pleasant and light, the library was dark and comfortable, the dining-room was staidly convivial: it was merely a common - place, well- furnished, grand house; but now, since Sir George's departure, since silence had settled down in it, it began to have such a ghastly air about it that the servants generally came into the rooms in pairs, and shewed a great tendency to sit together over the fire in the steward's room and servants' hall at night, and not move for trifles.

And the ghost which frightened them all was no other than poor little Gerty. They never knew where they were going to find her. These old staid, grey-headed servants had always thought her ladyship very queer, but now she began to be to them what the Scotch call uncanny. There were, as the housekeeper would have told you with pride (as if she had

dred feet of suite in the great rooms which ran round the house, and in this suite there were no less than sixteen fireplaces. When the first frost sent the leaves fluttering off the elms, and rattling off the horse chestnuts, Gerty had every one of these fires lit and carefully attended to all day. It was now that the servants, who had always been slightly afraid of her, began to steal about the rooms: for, among all the sixteen fireplaces, it was impossible to say at which a nervous middle-aged footman would find her ladyship lying on her back on the hearth-rug, and talking unutterable nonsense, either to Baby, or, what was worse, in his unavoidable absence, to herself. The servants, being mostly old, got so many frights by trusting themselves in the great wilderness of furniture, and coming on Lady Hillyar in the very place where they would have betted all they had she wasn't, that it became the custom to plead indisposition in order to avoid going, and in some cases to resort to stimulants before going, into the strange ghostly region alone.

Sometimes they would hear her romping with Baby. Sometimes her voice would come from afar off, as she sat and sang at the piano. As far as they could gather, she was never low-spirited or dull. She read a great deal, and used to dress herself very carefully; but, as time went on, the old housekeeper began to fancy that she got a little vacant in her answers, and longed for spring to coine again, and for her ladyship to get out on the downs.

She had only one visitor, Mr. Compton; and he would come down sometimes for a night on business, at which time she would entertain him at dinner. She would talk about George and his whereabouts, and calculate on the period of his return, strange to say, with less eagerness as the time went on. Her present life, whatever its objections might be, was at all events peaceful; and that was much, after that dreadful letter the recollection of which came on her sometimes yet with a chill of

ting that; nay, was going a very good way to work to forget a good deal more. Baby was not condemned to entire seclusion with his mother. He had been ill once, and a doctor, being brought in, ordered the child two hours' exercise every day. And so, every day, he was consigned to Reuben, who led him away on a little pony through all the secluded coverts where his duty lay, and, in his pleasant way, introduced him to all the wild wonders of the gamekeeper's world.

The child got very much attached to Reuben, as did most people; and Gerty had such full confidence in him, and the boy grew so rosy and hale under his care, and it was so pleasant to hear the boy's stories of his day's adventures at their little tea, that she gave Reuben every liberty about hours, and Reuben himself, being fond of the company of children, would very often keep the child out late.

The winter dragged on, and Gerty began to anticipate her release, when, on a wild March evening with a lurid sunset, the boy came home and told his mother that they had met the devil walking in a wood. That the devil had been glad to see Reuben, and wished (as Baby believed) for Reuben to give him (Baby) to him (the devil). That Reuben had been very much frightened at first, but after a time had coaxed the devil away, and talked to him in a dark place among the trees; during which time he (Baby) had sat on the pony all alone, and let it eat grass. Upon this Gerty sat on him like a commissioner. To Question 250, "My gracious goodness child, how near were you to him?" the Answer was 66 Ever so far. Reuben ran forward when he saw him, to prevent his catching hold of me." Question 251, "Did you see his face?" A aswer, But I know it was the devil." Question 252, "Why?" Answer, "Because he went on going to and fro, like he did in Job." Question 253, "Had you no other reason for thinking it was the devil?" Answer, "Yes" Question 254, "What?" Answe "Reuben said it was." Question 255, "What

"No.

goodness?", Answer, "He said that, if I told you a word about it, the beadle would come down the chimney at twelve o'clock at night, and carry me off to apprentice me into the wooden-leg and glass-eye business." Question 256, "How do you come to remember Reuben's nonsense so well, you little silly thing?" Answer, "Because he kept on saying it all the way home." Question 257, "Why did you tell me if Reuben told you not?" Answer, "I don't know." Question 258, "Do you want any more marmalade?" Answer, "Yes."

Lady Hillyar rang the bell, and asked if Reuben was gone. It seemed he was not, and it seemed, moreover, that he had distrusted his little friend's discretion, for, on being shown up, he was in a most perfect state of London assurance, ready for Gerty at all points. Before the conversation could begin, it was necessary that Baby should go to the nursery, and, as it appeared (after a somewhat lively debate, in which Gerty adduced the fate of the children who had called after-or as she expressed it, "joed"-the prophet Elisha, without the slightest effect,) that he would not go there unless Reuben took him, Reuben had to take him accordingly. After a long absence he reappeared, and the conversation began.

"Well if this don't bang wattle gum1," began Gerty, who was wild with curiosity, and forgot her manners accordingly, "I wish I may be buried in the bush in a sheet of bark. Why I feel all over centipedes and copper lizards. For you to go and see the devil with that dear child, and teach him not to let his mother know, and in Whitley Copse too, of all places, and you old enough to be his father. You ought to You ought to get Why you ought to have your grog stopped

be

'My lady, indeed—”

1 This is a very low expression. If Mrs. Oxton had been there she never would have dared to use it. In the bush, when a chemist's shop is not handy, the gum of the acacia is

"No, I don't mean that. You musn't be angry with me; I wasn't really in a pelter. You ain't going to be cross with me, are you, Reuben? You did see the devil now, didn't you? That dear child would never deceive his own mother. Come, I am sure you did."

"I only told him it was the devil, my lady."

"Then who was it? It couldn't have been Black Joe, because we heard of his being hung, soon after we went into Cook's Land, for putting a chest of drawers on an old woman to get her money out of her, though why he couldn't have taken it out of her pocket- He was very like the devil, my father used to say, though I don't believe he ever saw him-the devil I mean: he saw Black Joe often enough, for he was assigned to him; and I remember his getting fifty for sauce one shearing time-"

"It wasn't him, my lady," said Reuben, arresting the torrent. "It vas a young man of the name of Ned, that keeps a beer'us in Old Gal Street, 'aledonia Road. That's about who it was, my lady. A terrible chap to swear and carry on in his drink, my lady, and I smelt him as I was a coming throug the copse, that he'd been at it; and I says, I says, Dash it all, I says, there'll be high life below stairs with him in about two twists of a lamb's tail; and I says to the kid-I ask pardon, the young 'un; I ask pardon again, the young master-Stay here, I says, while I go and has it out with him, for the ears of the young, I says, should never be defiled, nor their morality contaminated with none of your Greenwich Fair, New Cut, Romany patter. And so I goes to him, And so I goes to him, my lady." Reuben, whose bark was now labouring heavily in the trough of a great sea of fiction, continued, "I goes to him, and

only I was let run wild in consequence of mamma's being so busy getting my sisters off, and papa being always in town after that dreadful drop in tallow, which ultimately flew to his stomach at the Prince of Wales, and took him off like the snuff of a candle. For my part-”

Here Reuben, who, having got breathing-time, had rapidly carried on his fiction in his head, took it up again: not at the point where he had dropped it last, but at the point at which he had arrived when he found himself capable of going in for another innings. So he began. Which left Gerty in the position of the reader of the third volume of a novel, who has had no opportunity of reading the second.

"And so, my lady, his aunt said that, with regard to the five-pound note, what couldn't be cured must be endured, and with regard to the black and tan terrier bitch, what was done couldn't be helped, though she hoped it wouldn't happen again. And they had in the gallon, my lady, and then they tossed for a go of turps and a hayband-I ask your ladyship's pardon, that means a glass of gin and a cigar; and that is all I know of the matter, I do assure you."

How the conversation would have come to an end, save by the sheer exhaustion of both parties, had not Baby reappeared in his nightshirt to look after Reuben, we cannot say. It concluded, however; and, however much Lonsense Reuben may have talked, he certainly gained his object, that of mystifying Gerty, and making her forget the subject in hand. He wished her good night with a brazen front, and, having received a kind farewell, departed.

Now what had really happened was shortly this. That evening, as he had been leading the child's pony through a dense copse, Sir George Hillyar had stepped out from behind a holly, and beckoned to him.

Reuben was very much astonished, for he supposed Sir George to be at Florence, but he let go the pony and came forward at once. Sir George