thing human and yet not human,
friendly and yet not friendly; something baffling, enigmatical,
haunting. I enquired of my deceased relative's aged housekeeper, Mrs.
Grimstone--whom I had retained--whose portrait it was, and she replied
with a scared look, 'Horace, youngest son of Sir Algernon Wimpole, who
died here in 1745.'

"'The face fascinates me,' I said. 'Is there any history attached to
it?'

"'Why, yes, sir!' she responded, her eyes fixed on the floor, 'but the
late master never liked referring to it.'

"'Is it as bad as that?' I said, laughing. 'Tell me!'

"'Well, sir,' she began, 'they do say as how Sir Algernon, who was a
thorough country squire--very fond of hunting and shooting and all sorts
of manly exercises--never liked Mr. Horace, who was delicate and
dandified--what the folk in those days used to style a macaroni. The
climax came when Mr. Horace took up with the Jacobites. Sir Algernon
would have nothing more to do with him then and turned him adrift. One
day there was a great commotion in the neighbourhood, the Government
troops were hunting the place in search of rebels, and who should come
galloping up the avenue with a couple of troopers in hot pursuit but Mr.
Horace. The noise brought out Sir Algernon, and he was so infuriated to
think that his son was the cause of the disturbance, a "disgraceful
young cub," he called him, that despite Mr. Horace's entreaties for
protection, he ran him through with his sword. It was a dreadful thing
for a father to do, and Sir Algernon bitterly repented it. His wife,
who had been devoted to Mr. Horace, left him, and at last, in a fit of
despondency, he hanged himself--out there, on one of the elms lining the
avenue. It is still standing. Ever since then they do say that the wood
is haunted, and that before the death of any member of the family Mr.
Horace is seen galloping along the old carriage drive.'

"'Pleasant,' I grunted. 'And how about the house--is it haunted too?'

"'I daresn't say,' she murmured. 'Some will tell you it is, and some
will tell you it isn't.'

"'In which category are you included?' I asked.

"'Well!' she said 'I have lived here happy and comfortable forty-five
years the day after to-morrow, and that speaks for itself, don't it?'
And with that she hobbled off and showed me the way to the dining-room.

"What a house it was! From the hall proceeded doorways and passages,
more than the ordinary memory could retain. Of these portals, on