ng and paring with the heartiest unconcern. After
which Luttrell's method of getting into the remainder of his clothes
can only be described as a scramble.

"How did you sleep?" asks Molly, a few minutes later, when he has
joined her, looking up from the rose-bush over which she is bending,
that holds no flower so sweet as her own self. "Well, I hope?"

"Very well, thank you," with a smile, his eyes fixed immovably upon the
fresh beauty of her face.

"You look suspicious," says she, with a little laugh. "Are you thinking
my question odd? I know when people are put over-night in a haunted
chamber they are always asked the next morning whether they 'slept
well,' in the fond hope that they didn't. But _you_ need not be
nervous. Nothing so inspiriting----"

"Is that a joke?" demands he, interrupting her, gravely.

"Eh? Oh, no! how could you think me guilty of such a thing? I mean that
nothing so hopeful as an undeniable ghost has ever yet appeared at
Brooklyn."

"Are you sure? Perhaps, then, I am to be the happy discoverer, as this
morning early, about dawn, there came an unearthly tapping at my window
that woke me, much to my disgust. I got up, but when I had opened the
shutters could see nothing. Was not that a visitation? I looked at my
watch, and found it was past four o'clock. Then I crept into my bed
again, crestfallen,--'sold' with regard to an adventure."

"That was my magpie," cries Molly, with a merry laugh: "he always comes
pecking at that hour, naughty fellow. Oh, what a tame ending to your
romance! Your beautiful ghost come to visit you from unknown regions,
clad in white and rustling garments, has resolved itself into a lame
bird, rather poverty-stricken in the matter of feathers."

"I take it rather hardly that your dependent should come to disturb
_me_," says Luttrell, reproachfully. "What have I done to him, or
how have I ingratiated myself, that he should forsake you for me? I did
not think even a meagre bird could have shown such _outre_ taste.
What fancy has he for _my_ window?"

"_Your_ window?" says Molly, quickly; then as quickly
recollecting, she stops short, blushing a warm and lovely crimson. "Oh,
of course,--yes, it was odd," she says, and, breaking down under the
weight of her unhappy blush, busies herself eagerly with her flowers.

"Have I taken your bedroom?" asks he, anxiously, watching with cruel
persistency the soft roses that bloom again at his words. "Yes, I see I
have. That is