went mad and died at the eleventh volume. So, of course, we did not pay
his widow anything. And now he's come for me--I know he has. Listen! he's
talking! Don't you hear him? Oh, Heavens! He says that I am going to be
an author, and he is going to publish for me for a thousand years--going
to publish on the quarter-profit system, with an annual account, the
usual trade deductions, and no vouchers. Oh! oh! Look!--they are all
coming!--they are pouring out of the Hutches! they are going to murder
me!--keep them off! keep them off!" and he howled and beat the air with
his hands.

Augusta, utterly overcome by this awful sight, knelt down by his side and
tried to quiet him, but in vain. He continued beating his hands in the
air, trying to keep off the ghostly train, till, at last, with one awful
howl, he fell back dead.

And that was the end of Meeson. And the works that he published, and the
money that he made, and the house that he built, and the evil that he
did--are they not written in the Book of the Commercial Kings?

"Well," said Augusta faintly to herself when she had got her breath back
a little, "I am glad that it is over; anyway, I do hope that I may never
be called on to nurse the head of another publishing company."

"Auntie! auntie!" gasped Dick, "why do the gentleman shout so?"

Then, taking the frightened child by the hand, Augusta made her way
through the rain to the other hut, in order to tell the two sailors what
had come to pass. It had no door, and she paused on the threshold to
prospect. The faint foggy light was so dim that at first she could see
nothing. Presently, however, her eyes got accustomed to it, and she made