"Hallo! What's all this?" gasps Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, struggling affrightedly
in his suffocating cage of whalebone and alpaca. "What's this here old
lady's hoop-skirt doing on me?"

"Peace, wriggling dotard!" hisses BUMSTEAD, jamming the umbrella tighter
over him. "If they see us they'll want some of the West Indian
Restorative."

Mr. SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY have already heard a sound; for they pause
abruptly in their conversation, and the latter asks: "Could it have been
a ghost?"

"Ask it if it's a ghost," whispers the Gospeler, involuntarily crossing
himself.

"Are you there, Mr. G.?" quavers the raised voice of the young
Southerner, respectfully addressing the inquiry to the stone wall.

No answer.

"Well," mutters the Gospeler, "it couldn't have been a ghost, after all;
but I certainly thought I saw an umbrella. To conclude what I was
saying, then,--I have the confidence in you, Mr. MONTGOMERY, to believe
that you will attend the dinner of Reconciliation on Christmas eve, as
you have promised."

"Depend on me, sir."

"I shall; and have become surety for your punctuality to that excellent
and unselfish healer of youthful wounds, Mr. BUMSTEAD."