and mould of the past. A room rife
with the cobwebs of ages met their vision where the moth-eaten remains
of once gorgeous hangings competed for utter fustiness with the odor of
the rotting beams and the dismal aspect of the furniture, some of which
had actually fallen to pieces, as though further stability had been
incompatible with the long absence of human life. The place seemed
almost too desolate for a ghost other than a very morbid spirit in
search of penance. In the centre of the room lay in hopeless confusion a
pile of all sorts and varieties of garments, many of them of most
antiquated description. Plumed hats and velvet knee-breeches of the
cavalier period, Jersey jackets and tea-gowns, with Watteau plaits, such
as were in fashion when Victoria was queen, were mingled with articles
of a more recent date. On the top lay an open volume, the pages of which
were brown with dust. Maggie picked it up and read:

"Howe'er it be, it seems to me
'Tis only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets
And simple faith than Norman blood."

"By whom is that, Lord Brompton? Ah! I see, Lord d'Eyncourt. His name is
on the title-page."

"An eccentric Victorian poet," said the young man, "of much account in
his own day, if I mistake not."

"I never heard of him," said Maggie, "but I am little of an antiquarian.
It is pretty, though."

"I remember," said he, "that we as children used to act theatricals here
in those old clothes, duds we ransacked from the closets."

"But where is the ghost? I want to see the ghost!" cried the girl,
tossing aside the last bit of tarnished finery. "What is this?" she
continued, seizing the end of a beam which had become loosened and
projected from the wall.

"You will have the house about our ears if you persist," he cried, as a
shower of crumbled stone and mortar followed her investigation.

"Well, it is my house, Lord Brompton; I have the right if I choose to."

"Why remind me of my misfortunes, Miss Windsor?"

"Come and help me, then."

"I wish I might be your helpmate forever," he said. She turned and
looked at him, slightly disconcerted, and then said: "I was wrong. The
women of to-day need no help from any one."

She gave the beam a strong wrench, as though to vindicate her assertion.
It yielded and disclosed a kind of box or recess set into the wall. She
plunged therein her hand, and drew forth a handsome sword of rich and
subtle workmansh