with age, but brightly
polished by continued rubbings. The furniture was of a past century; the
floors worm-eaten but of scrupulous cleanliness, their centres covered
with modern or perchance Turkish carpets. The mullioned windows with their
appropriate leaden-lozenged casements, glazed with glass of various shades
of green, were ornamented with curtains, not hung for show but intended to
be used nightly.

Into one of these rooms our elderly gentleman was ceremoniously shown by
the obsequious waiter; and here, after the hearty meal was ended and the
newspaper run through, the evening was spent, as the reader will perhaps
anticipate, in company with 'mine host.' It was spring, as I have before
said; cold and cheerless without, but within a bright blazing fire, and a
table upon which sparkled generous wine, 'that maketh glad the heart of
man,' gave earnest of comfortable quarters. You may fancy the stout
gentleman and his companion honest Boniface, no shadow, each seated in arm
chairs of creditable proportions, whiling away the evening hour with many
a tale; a fragment of one of which we will now just touch upon.

'And you really think the tile which you have dug up from below the
foundation in the cellar, to be of the date of Julius Caesar; and infer
from it that a roof has sheltered this spot for two thousand years? It is
a hallowed thought to reflect upon the crowd of spirits which must hover
over and around us, if we suppose, as some do, that when we leave this
tabernacle of clay, we shall continue to linger in the midst of our old
haunts; and that these spirits are the unseen and unfelt witnesses of our
every act. It may be mere fancy, but I am inclined to think there is more
truth in the thought than cold philosophy is willing to admit.'

'Then, Sir, you are a believer in ghosts?' observed Boniface.

'Why, no; I cannot say truly that I am, though I have oftentimes longed to
make an acquaintance with one. By the way, I should think this building of
nooks and corners was admirably adapted for the carrying out some marvel
of the sort. Pray, is there not some hobgoblin or merry sprite playing his
antics about your premises, my worthy host?'

Hereupon Boniface looked doubtingly, and feeling his way before committing
himself, he at last admitted that 'there was some idle story of the kind,
but for his part, he put no faith in such silly things.'

'Well, of course,' said his guest, 'it must be some particular room tha