the bats are not flying about. And 'tis no great matter about your taking his place either; for you might as well have it as anybody else, if only you wouldn't be so selfish about the sheet. My being here comes of keeping anniversaries. Jonathan's people are all Puritans, and anniversaries don't run much in the family only birthdays and Sundays, and I don't know which is the worst." By this time my brain fairly reeled with a wild, fantastic idea, to which my tongue refused to give utterance. Could it be possible that my strange bedfellow was my great-great-grandmother? The room was enveloped in total darkness, the blinds having been closed by Miss Matilda's direction. "Anniversaries are well enough in their way," resumed the voice, after a moment's pause, for though I had surrendered wellnigh the entire sheet, my companion seemed still volubly inclined; "but it grows mighty monotonous to be always keeping 'em. It keeps one busy year in and year out if there are many in the family. I might as well not be dead, for all the rest I get, what with bats and anniversaries. I sometimes wish the Armitages didn't have a vault under the chancel and had been Puritans like Jonathan's family. There's scarce a good fortnight out of the twelvemonth that I am left in peace - that is, of course, except August. I don't have many anniversaries in August - only one. But 'tisn't time to talk about that now; it makes me sleepy." This remark was followed by deep, heavy breathing. With a desperate sense that a precious moment was passing, I forced myself to speak. "May I be permitted to ask, my dear madam, if I have the honor of addressing "Your great-great-grandmother-yes," interrupted the voice petulantly; "and I have just been celebrating the anniversary of my marriage with your greatgreat-grandfather, only you've taken his place away from him; though that don't matter much, as 'tisn't either a birthday nor a Sunday. But if t'wa'n't for this anniversary you never would have had a birthday to celebrate. And I don't know that that would have been any such great loss, unless you learn better habits with the bedclothes. 'Tis a God's-mercy 'tisn't January instead of July. But you mustn't interrupt me again; I'm counting." My ancestress again relapsed into silence, though I strained my ears to catch any sound that might possibly fall from her lips. After awhile she uttered a half-impatient, half-desperate exclamation. "Oh dear! 'tis monstrous awkward when two anniversaries will fall on the same day one in Massachusetts and t'other in Virginia, at that! "Tis a blessing that you don't have to trust to the stage-coach after you're dead, or there never would be any anniversaries kept. Now I've got to begin and count all over again. To-morrow night I've got to dance with Lord Dunmore at the Palace. Then comes a week of rest, if it only wasn't for the bats. I don't see why they didn't bury me outside in the churchyard, instead of in that black vault under the chancel, only it wouldn't be so grand. Week after next I've got to celebrate the anniversary of my arrival in New England. They've gone and pulled down the house, or its burned down, or something. Only the chimney's there; and 'tis monstrous dismal sitting out in the damp, enough to give you the pleurisy, particularly when the others don't come, being Puritans. After that comes August and — " My ancestress paused suddenly. Across the fields came the dull, low rumble of an approaching train. "There, that rooster is about to crow," she said hurriedly. she said hurriedly. "I can hear him rustling. 'Tis only in the last few years he has taken to crowing so loud-only since the one-hundredth anniversary of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at-" The rapidly approaching locomotive gave a long, piercing wail. Just then the blind of the eastern window was blown open, throwing a dim light upon the portrait hanging above the mantelpiece. I gazed steadily in that direction; but only a pair of saucy eyes and pouting lips beamed archly down upon me. Outside the birds began to twitter and sing; the east grew roseate; at last the sunlight came streaming in through the open win Never since the days of childhood had I held belief in ghosts, nor even now would I acknowledge that childish imagining to be other than a superstition, though confident that I had not dreamed this conversation with that worthy lady, my greatgreat-grandmother, who, I have since informed myself, departed this life the 25th day of August, 1810, in the fifty-seventh year of her age. At breakfast Miss Matilda commented upon my hollow-eyed appearance; and at tea informed me that she had ordered my luggage to be removed from the room I had occupied the previous night to a large room across the hall, as she feared I had been imprudent in allowing the east wind to blow in upon me. On entering the new quarters, my first desire was to ascertain whether any portraits of my Armitage ancestry adorned the walls. First examination disclosed none; but upon shutting a closed door, which had been thrown open against the wall, a small oval picture of a puffy old gentleman in a tie-wig, snuff-colored coat, and long, white waistcoat of ample breadth, was revealed. Though almost exasperated at finding him there, I could not help laughing at the pompous, selfimportant, little old fellow, with the first and second fingers of his right hand thrust between the buttons on his waistcoat, and his left hand extended. At the head of the bed, which was after the same antique pattern as the one I had last slept in, was a door leading into another apartment. Contrary to Miss Matilda's injunction, I threw open the blinds of the window nearest the closet door before getting into bed. There was a dim moonlight, the sky being overcast, and when I extinguished the candle the room seemed almost dark. Notwithstanding exhaustion from want of rest and sleep, my eyes refused to stay closed. Presently the moon, struggling through a rift in the clouds, sent a bright yellow ray across the room full upon the little oval portrait. Soon the light faded; but the picture remained distinctly visi ble, a small black patch against the wall. Surely it had no appearance of being fraught with ill; but I was beginning to look with suspicion upon the Armitage family portraits. At last, disgusted with foolish wakefulness, I turned impatiently upon one side, my back to the portrait, and after awhile fell into a fitful slumber. He It must have been nearly three o'clock when I reversed my position and beheld the figure of a man standing in the light of the half-obscured room. Instantly fully awake, I lay perfectly motionless, regarding the intruder, feeling sure that he was nothing more nor less than an apparition - a member of the Armitage family celebrating an anniversary. was short of stature, wore a tie-wig, a dark coat reaching to his knees, and a sumptuous white waistcoat buttoned tightly across a most surprising rotundity; in short, he was no less a personage than the original of the oval portrait hanging just behind him. The first and second fingers of his right hand were thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, while with his left he gesticulated with a vehemence that put his whole body in motion, the only sound he uttered being a violent puffing and blowing occasioned by this excessive exertion. In spite of every effort I could not suppress a half-smothered laugh at sight of this altogether comical figure. Immediately the gesticulation ceased. "There is no tradition in the family that I suffered myself to be interrupted," he exclaimed, in a thin, wheezy voice that might have been irate had loss of breath permitted. "I am sure, sir, I beg your pardon most humbly," I hastened to apologize. "Oh, well, if you are willing to apologize, that is sufficient," he replied in a milder tone, mopping his forehead with a huge bandanna. huge bandanna. "And then, too, you cannot be expected to be well acquainted with the customs of the family, being from Massachusetts Bay." By this time he had recovered his equanimity, along with his breath, and stood motionless in the gray moonlight, two fingers of one hand thrust into his waistcoat, the other extended. "I am Sir Griffeth Armitage, fifth bar sword-hilt ('tis silver wrought and cost two thousand of tobacco), and under my left arm is a cocked hat. 'Tis more comfortable and less damaging to waistcoat buttons. But when conforming to the tradition that I was a Damnation and shoe-buckles! the British !" The shrill explanation made me spring up in bed. Across the fields came the rumble of an approaching train, the same that had alarmed my ancestress the previous night. onet, and one of your great-great-great- position. My right hand rests upon my grandfathers," he continued. "By ref "By ref erence to the genealogical table you will find that you have just sixteen; but mine is the only title among 'em." His fat, round body swelled pompously. "There is a tradition in the family that I was a great orator. To be sure, history says nothing about it; but I never go against family traditions, and let me advise you to follow my example. When you contemptuously interrupted me just now, I was rehearsing the only speech I ever made in my life- not the words, of course, only the gestures. The speech was too long to be got into the family traditions; so where was the use of my remembering it? And, oh, dear me, 'twas all in long esses too! I always speak in long esses, as doubtless you have observed, and 'tis amazing fatiguing. I don't recollect a word of that speech, nor what 'twas about either; but the anniversary will be next week, so I must perforce practise the gestures." He sighed wearily in the very depths of his rotundity; but stood motionless, like a Dutch figure in terra-cotta. "Perhaps you would find it more comfortable in that three-cornered chair by the fireplace," I ventured to suggest. "O, dear, no," he spluttered dejectedly, puffing until he must have been red in the face, "'twould be a departure from tradition. Possibly you have not observed the portrait behind the door." "I could not fail to be struck by it," I replied politely. "Then how could I be expected to sit in a three-cornered chair beside the fireplace?" he inquired querulously. "To be sure, 'tis monstrous fatiguing, and gives me the twinges in my gouty leg; and the thread holding that waistcoat button is wellnigh wore in two. But 'tis family tradition, and I never go against it." I mentally resolved that if I ever had my portrait painted I should be represented in a reclining posture. The possible misery entailed upon the dead by the whims of artists was appalling to reflect upon. "Now when I am celebrating an anniversary downstairs," resumed my ancestor, "tradition does not place me in this "They've got a yell in the last few years," cried the little old man, in a great rage, "that's enough to give a good patriot the the twinges in his right leg; and I won't stand it 'tis contrary to all tradition! I was a colonel in the continental army," he continued, in hurried explanation, "though before the Revolution I was a Tory, as all gentlemen should be- first Tory, then Whig. But keeping anniversaries I'm sometimes one, then t'other. This season of the year I'm mostly Whig, though some days both at once. There, those British are about to yell." Stuffing his fingers into his ears, he was gone like a whisk of the wind. Apparently the spectres infesting the Armitage mansion were most innocently disposed toward mortals, wholly absorbed by their own concerns, which seemed to be principally the keeping of anniversaries; but to beings still in the flesh a certain amount of sleep is a necessity, and with the enjoyment of this refreshment they interfered most inconsiderately. The society of my greatgreat-grandmother and of her father, my great-great-great-grandfather, I had unquestionably found amusing, but was now beginning to view the matter in a different light. I felt exasperated, spiteful; and determined to express myself freely the next opportunity that offered. Then a new wonder seized upon me how had Miss Matilda, dwelling all the years of her life beneath this phantominfested roof, contrived to retain that peach-blossom tinge in her cheeks? When I went down to breakfast I met the mild gaze of Sir Griffeth's portrait with a defiant stare. It had been painted when he was a young man, slight of figure and not traditionally a great orator. The face was pleasant, even handsome; but the mild brown eyes and placid, unchanging smile exasperated me to a desire to jerk those shapely fingers from the hilt of the sword which they clasped. Miss Matilda's entrance prevented any unseemly mutilation of her seraphim. "I make it my rule," she said, giving me a morning greeting, "never to deviate from the traditions and customs of the family. One of the latter is punctuality - and I am five minutes late. But, my dear child, how pale you are!" I replied with the pleasantest smile I could command, that I had slept badly, but thought a cup of coffee would make amends. The long, hot day wore away, and my third night in Williamsburg came, glorious with moonlight. On entering my room the first object to meet my eyes was that detestable little oval portrait. Its presence was an abomination. Could I have done so without detection, I should most cheerfully have blotted it out of existence. I opened the closed door. That did not satisfy me. I then thought of locking the nuisance in the bottom of my trunk; but immediately arose a vision of my rotund ancestor standing upon the lid, the first and second fingers of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, the left hand extended. At last I bethought me of a new idea. If I could not rid myself of the portrait, the portrait should be rid of me. Why should I not migrate to the adjoining chamber, into which the door beside the bed doubtless led? Miss Matilda had her bedroom somewhere on the lower floor, and, so far as I knew, there was no other human occupant of the house. Accordingly I turned the knob and the bolt yielded; but some force from within prevented the door from being opened. This I proved to be a heavy piece of furniture, which by gradual pressure I moved sufficiently to allow me to slip through. The room, about the size of my own, was sparingly furnished. The object that had retarded my entrance was an antique bureau surmounted by a small square mirror, beneath which was a row of three shallow drawers. Beside one of the windows stood a capacious easy chair. The other window, which opened to the floor, led out upon an upper porch. But there was no bed. This was certainly a disadvantage. But one feature of the apartment far outbalanced such a trifle — the walls were entirely bare, no trace of a portrait anywhere. I determined to spend the night in the easy chair. After transferring from my room a few necessary articles, I closed the door and pushed the bureau against it. Then with a sense of relief, even quiet joyousness, that tired nature alone can experience, I threw myself into the chair, pressing my cheek against its cool flowered chintz covering as a preliminary taste of the blessed rest in store for me. Outside, the world lay wrapped in mellow moonlight and black shadows; and I sat leaning across the deep window-seat, my head resting upon my arm, gazing out upon the quiet loveliness until my eyelids involuntarily closed in sleep. When I awakened, it was with a start and a vague consciousness of not being alone. Rising from my half-recumbent position, I found my limbs numb and cold, and great drops of perspiration beaded my brow. But my own discomfort was soon forgotten; for in front of the window opening upon the porch stood a woman, the brilliant moonlight hovering around her like a glory. A white robe fell in airy folds from her throat to her feet. Her face was exquisite, pallid like marble, though the lips were a deep crimson, full and tremulous; and masses of chestnut hair swept shimmering to her waist. One fair hand hung listlessly beside her, the other pressed convulsively the half-exposed bosom. Beautiful beautiful!-but, oh, the suppressed suffering suffusing the face and overshadowing the tearless eyes lifted heavenward. As she stood there a shadowy form glided to her side and, gradually expanding into distinctness of outline, developed into the figure of a young man wellnigh as beautiful of feature as the woman. His chest was that of a gallant of an early decade of the last century, elaborate with lace and embroidery. He lifted the woman's listless hand and touched it with his lips. She did not resist nor look toward him; and still the other hand remained passionately pressed against her heart. He slipped his arm about her waist; and still she stood motionless, nor bent her eyes from the moon-steeped sky. Then he inclined his face down close to her's. Suddenly she threw her long bare arm about his neck and drew his head downward, her own resting against his breast, and their lips met in one long passionate kiss. As they stood locked in each other's arms the man's figure slowly faded away, and the woman was left alone. With an expression of intense, half-delicious pain upon her face, she raised her naked arms and clasped her hands above her head. Her tall, lithe figure swayed as a reed in the wind, and then she tottered. I made a desperate effort to rush to her assistance, but my muscles refused to obey my will. A dark red stream gushed from her lips, staining her bosom and the white folds of her gown. She staggered across to the bureau and against it leaned her head, the shadow of her hair falling across her face and shoulders. An instant later she had vanished. My limbs were suddenly freed from the spell that had bound them, and obeying a quick impulse, I crossed the room. to the bureau. Hurriedly I opened each drawer, only to find it empty. My eyes fell upon the three little drawers beneath the mirror. Two of these were likewise empty; the third was locked. With feverish haste I snapped the lock, and there lay an ivory miniature set in a narrow gold rim. The face was that of the woman who had just left me, though the lips were wreathed in smiles; the eyes not full of tearless suffering, but soft and warm with youth and joyousness. Scarcely had I completed the inspection of the miniature when I was startled by the opening of the door behind me, which before going to bed I found to be locked, and which I supposed led into. the hall. Before I could turn, a woman in rustling brocade of gorgeous pattern swept swiftly by me over to the bureau, the drawers of which she opened one after another, seeming to seek something among their imaginary contents. Her hair was done up in an immense pyramid, heavily powdered; her face was bedizened with paint and black patches cut into grotesque shapes, which ill-concealed the lines and wrinkles beneath; her features were twitching with an eager passion, and in those features I recognized, from the portrait downstairs, my great-great-great-great-grandmother, the Lady Dorothea, wife of Sir Richard, fourth baronet. "The cards have run against me tonight," she mumbled, as she rummaged in the drawers; "but luck must change. Oh, lud, where can that guinea ha' gone! I put it in here last week." Through the window came the shriek of a distant locomotive. "God ha' mercy," exclaimed the dame, clutching a glittering coin between her fingers, "there's Betsy Piggott screaming over her winnings! She never could stand good luck." Like a flash she was gone, the door locked behind her. me. But a So ended my third night beneath the roof of my Armitage ancestry. I threw myself exhausted, mentally and physically, into the window-seat, and the fresh, cool air somewhat revived me. horrible dread, a feeling of consternation and grim foreboding, had fastened upon The distressing unrest of the Armitage dead turned my blood cold with a sickening possibility. With other blood coursing through my veins was blended a thin stream which they had left me as a heritage. Had the curse of unresting death come with it?—and was I precondemned to perpetual keeping of anniversaries? I thanked God fervently for the preponderance of my Puritan blood, which might counteract this baleful influence. The remarks of my great-greatgrandmother gave me comfort in this hope. Each night had my visitant been of the next earlier generation than the one of the night before. Was this to continue indefinitely, back to the original Armitage, who, from family tradition, must have flourished prehistorically? The sun was well up in the heavens ere I left the window-seat and returned |