glish country life, combined with the comforts of the
most advanced civilization; and, to make it all perfection, you have at
every turn the lingering romance of the glorious mediaeval life," with a
glance at Miss Dabstreak, "that middle age which in beauty was the prime
of age, from which began and spread all your most glorious ideas, your
government, your warfare, your science. Did you never have an alchemist
in your family, Uncle John? Surely he found for you the golden secret,
and it is his touch which has beautified these old walls!"

"I don't know," said John Carvel.

"Indeed there was!" cried Chrysophrasia, in delight. "I have found out
all about him. He was not exactly an alchemist; he was an astrologer,
and there are the ruins of his tower in the park. There are some old
books up-stairs, upon the Black Art, with his name in them, Johannes
Carvellius, written in the most enchanting angular handwriting."

"I believe there was somebody of that name," remarked John.

"They are full of delicious incantations for raising the devil,--such
exquisite ceremonies, with all the dress described that you must wear,
and the phases of the moon, and hazel wands cut at midnight. Imagine how
delightful!"

"The tower in the park is a beautiful place," said Hermione. "I have it
all filled with flowers in summer, and the gardener's boy once saw a
ghost there on All Hallow E'en."

"You must take me there," said Paul, smiling good-humoredly at the
reference to the alchemist. "I have a passion for ruins, and I had no
idea that you had any; nothing seems ruined here, and yet everything
appears old. What a delightful place!" Paul sat far back in his
comfortable chair, and inserted a single eyeglass in the angle between
his heavy brow and his aquiline nose; his bony fingers were spotless,
long, and white, and as he sat there he had the appearance of a
personage receiving the respectful homage of a body of devoted
attendants, the indescribable air of easy superiority and condescending
good-nature which a Roman patrician might have assumed when visiting the
country villa of one of his clients. Everybody seemed delighted to be
noticed by him and flattered by his words.

I am by nature cross-grained and crabbed, I presume. I admitted that
Paul Patoff, though not graceful in his movements, was a fine-looking
fellow, with an undeniable distinction of manner; he had a pleasant
voice, an extraordinary command of English, though he was but