h other. As the
stranger advanced, Salome unconsciously retreated a few steps, and
exclaimed,--

"Gray-eyed, gray-haired, gray-clad, gray-faced, and rising out of that
gray sea, I suppose I have at last met the gray ghost that people tell
me haunts old 'Solitude.' But how came such a young face under that
drift of white hair? If all ghosts have such finely carved, delicate
noses and chins, such oval cheeks and pretty brows, most of us here in
the flesh might thank fortune for a chance to 'shuffle off this mortal
coil.' Say, are you the troubled evil spirit that haunts 'Solitude'?"

"I am."

The voice was so mournfully sweet that it thrilled every nerve in
Salome's quivering frame.

"Phantom or flesh--which are you?"

"Mrs. Gerome, the owner of 'Solitude.'"

"Oh, indeed! I beg your pardon, madam, but I took you for a wraith!
You know the place has always been considered unlucky--haunted--and
you are such an extraordinary-looking person I was inclined to think I
had stumbled on the traditional ghost. I am neither ignorant nor
stupidly superstitious; but, madam, you must admit you have an
unearthly appearance; and, moreover, I should be glad to know how you
rose from the beach below to the top of this cliff? I see no feathers
on your shoulders--no balloon under your feet!"

"I was walking on the sands in front of my door, and, hearing some
very sweet strains that came floating down from this direction, I
followed the sound, and climbed by means of steps cut in the side of
this cliff. Since you regarded me as a spectre, I may as well tell you
that I was beginning to fancy I was listening to one of the old
sea-sirens, until I saw your rosy face and red lips, far too human for
a dripping mermaid or a murderous, mocking Aglaiopheme."

"No more a siren, madam, than you are a ghost! I am only Salome Owen,
the miller's child, waiting for that boy yonder, whose sublimest idea
of heaven consists in the hope that its blessed sea of glass is
brimming with golden shrimp. Stanley, run around the cliff, and meet
me. It is too late for us to be here. We should have started home an
hour ago."

"Who taught you 'Traviata'?"

"I am teaching myself, with what small help I can obtain from a
vagabond musician, who calls himself Signor Barilli, and claims to
have been a tenor singer in an opera troupe at Milan."

"You ought to cultivate your voice as thoroughly as possible."

"Why? Is it really good? Tell me, is it worth anything