found that I had purchased a collection of English Legends. Finding the table of contents, the first title that caught my eye was a story called 'The White Lady of Byron Abbey'-a strange coincidence, I thought, as I opened the book at the proper place for its perusal. I am afraid I fell asleep over my author more than once, but as far as I can remember, the legend was to the following effect:

The

Many many years ago, when Byron Abbey was in the hands of the Vaughans of the time of Charles the First, the place was subjected to a siege by the soldiers of the Commonwealth. family were, of course, Cavaliers-I say of course, because the loyalty of the Vaughan race to the Stuarts has passed into a proverb. After the castle had been subjected to very rough usage, it was taken by storm, and fell into the hands of the Roundheads. The officer commanding Cromwell's soldiers was a certain Colonel Cook, who, it seems, was more of a bully than a warrior. This man, after ordering the chaplain (a Roman Catholic priest) to be hanged upon the battlements, forced his way into the apartments of Lady Ida, the newly-married wife of Sir Charles, the head of the family. The colonel found the poor bride pale and trembling. Poor girl-she was little more than a girl-she had good cause for alarm. Stories had reached her ears from the villagers of the character of the man who now stood before her. She knew him to be cruel and pitiless. With a grim smile upon his repulsive features he bowed to her in mock courtesy, and addressed her as follows:

Fair lady, I wish to see thy husband. My men have sought for him high and low, and they cannot find him; we wait thy assistance.'

She turned away from him, and the tears rolled down her cold, pale cheeks, but she answered him never a word.

'Come, come, mistress,' he continued, in the same tone of insulting banter, 'we must find him sooner or later, and it will be better for thee if we have thy help. Look over yonder and see we know how to treat insubordinate spirits. The pestilent papist dangling in the wind from that tower would not show us the way to his chalices, so we sent him home to prepare the way for his master;' and with a cruel laugh he pointed to the unfortunate ecclesiastic who was hanging from the battle

ments.

The Lady Ida shuddered, but still kept her peace.

Very well; as thou wilt not help

thyself to the weeds that will so become thee, we must make thee a widow perforce.'

Without further parley the Colonel sounded the pannelled walls, tearing down the tapestry when it impeded him in his search. The Lady Ida watched his movements with tearful eyes, and as he approached the oldfashioned mantelpiece her agitation increased tenfold.

'Ha, ha!' he laughed, as he observed her emotion, thou art an excellent guide, mistress. I see that I shall soon be able to restore thee to the arms of thine husband.'

He had scarcely uttered these words ere the lady started up, and, seizing a small knob in the ornaments of the stonework, pulled it towards her. It yielded to her pressure, and discovered a thin silken cord. Drawing from her bodice a poniard, she severed the cord from the knob, and the rope sprung away from her with a slight whirr-a noise which was followed almost immediately by the sound of falling

masonry.

'What does this mean?' cried the colonel, taken fairly by surprise.

"That my husband is saved from the hands of a butcher;' and with a face as cold as marble, but with the dignity of a queen, Lady Ida left the ruffian to his own devices: she swept past him, and retired into an inner apartment.

In spite of all his efforts, the colonel failed to discover the baronet's hidingplace. After a week passed in a fruitless search, he called his men together, and leaving the castle dismantled and the abbey in ruins, proceeded on his way to new conquests. On the night of his departure a figure clothed in white was seen in the grounds separating the two buildings. As midnight was tolled in the belfry, Lady Ida entered the deserted abbey and made her way to the high altar. She looked around her timidly, and then touching a spring concealed in the masonry, discovered a flight of stone steps. She stretched forth her hand and uttered a terrible cry, for lying before her was the lifeless form of her husband. The next morning bride and bridegroom were found dead. It is supposed that Sir Charles, unable to return to the house by the secret passage running between the abbey and the castle, and fearful of discovering himself to the soldiers of the Protector, who had used the church as a stable for their horses, was absolutely starved to death. At any rate, the tragedy was quite horrible enough to give the crones of the village

hard by a theme for a ghost story; and so it was currently reported that every night at twelve o'clock the phantom of Lady Ida visited the high altar in search of her husband. So said the oldest inhabitants of Beaufort, and the tale was repeated in the pages of the shilling Collection of English Legends, under the appetising title of "The White Lady of Byron Abbey.'

By the time I had finished reading this particularly interesting story (told by the author of the Shilling Volume' in the best penny-a-line English), I found myself at Beaufort. I jumped out of the railway carriage, and leaving my man to look after my luggage, passed out of the station. As Byron Abbey was only a mile from the terminus, I determined upon stretching my legs by walking to my destination. So, after referring the coachman of the trap sent by Vaughan to meet me to my fellow, I shouldered my stick and marched away.

Dorset is a favourite county of mine. I am exceedingly fond of its wooded hills and verdant valleys, and consider them at their best in the autumn. After a five minutes' stroll I found myself before the entrance-lodge of the Vaughan estate, and passing through the gates, made my way towards the house.

It was indeed a beautiful scene. I stood upon a hill with a wood for the background, and in the valley before me was the quadrangular house rising from a parterre of flowers and a forest of shrubberies. The rays of the setting sun cast a rosy light upon the stone front with its clinging ivy and pointed windows. Hard by was the old abbey, overgrown with leafy creepers, gorgeous with the glorious tints of autumn. Here and there in the green sward before me were patches of trees-beyond the abbey were hills brilliant with verdant grass and particoloured shrubberies. I stood for a moment entranced with the loveliness of the landscape and then hurried on. Below me was a sparkling stream which emptied itself into a lake to my right-a lake dotted with islands and birds. Crossing a rustic bridge, I passed over a lawn into an Italian garden, and bearing to my right had left the house behind me and was facing the porch of the abbey. The door was ajar, and as I neared it the deep tones of an organ reached my ears and filled my soul with solemn melancholy. I entered the abbey and stood under the lantern. The high altar (once the scene of poor Lady Ida's woe) had been adapted to the needs of our reformed church and was shorn of half its glories-it con

fronted me in all the cold dignity of Protestantism. To my right and left were the defaced tombs of abbots, statesmen, and warriors; at my feet were old brasses, telling of those who were dead-who had been dead for many a hundred years. My mind travelled back to the days long, long ago; and so absorbed was I in my reverie that

I did not notice that the sound of the organ had ceased and that a light tread was falling on the stones immediately behind me. At last I turned round, and, to my delight, found myself in the presence of Alice Vaughan. She smilingly gave me her hand, and as we passed out of the abbey together, in silence, it seemed to me that the colour on her cheek was deeper than it was wont to be in London.

'I am so glad to see you, Harold!-I mean Mr. Harwood,' she said when we were again in the open air. 'It's just like old times-isn't it?'

·

Why? Because the country is so artificial, and London so arcadian?'

'Not exactly! But, don't you see, we do all sorts of silly things in the season -and have only time to regret them when we get back to our dull old places in the country. I am awfully changed. I have buried every bit of the past and am going to be a very pattern of discretion for the future.'

This is sad news indeed, Miss Vaughan,' I said, with mock seriousness. You would never forgive me if I called you Ally?'

'Forgiveness is a Christian virtue, and I have been awfully pious since the last time we met. You can't imagine what a nice Sunday-school I have got down here.'

'May I come and teach in it ?'

'Don't be ridiculous. But I must do the honours. Arthur and Mary, and Colonel Bartle and Monte Gaunt have gone out for a drive. The Mount Desarts don't come down till to-morrow; so I am all alone. Isn't it a pretty place? Shall we go in?'

I opened the door and followed her into the house.

She took me through all the reception-rooms to make me at home,' as she said. We lingered over this picture and that piece of armour until the first dinner-bell rang, and then she exclaimed

'Oh, I must show you the gallery—it

is so jolly! See-do you think that young lady pretty in the ruff? She was my great, great ever-so-many greats grandmother.'

She chattered away as she was wont to chatter in the Row, and found in me a very willing listener. At last we stood in front of a picture concealed from view by a green curtain.

What's behind that?' I asked. 'Don't speak so loud,' she whispered. That's the picture of the "White Lady," the portrait of my poor greatgreat-great-aunt Ida, who died before the restoration of Charles the Second.'

I know the legend well,' said I, rather proud of my knowledge.

'Well then, sir, you must know you mustn't look at it.'

'Why not?'

'Because they say that the stranger who looks at this picture for the first time is sure to see the ghost of the original within twelve hours.'

I am rather fond of ghosts,' said I; and with that I pulled back the curtain.

I started with astonishment. Alice looked up into my face, and laughing merrily asked if it was like any one I knew. Then she tripped away down the corridor, leaving me to my own reflections.

Like any one I knew! Why the picture, in spite of its great age and antique accessories, was a portrait of Alice herself!

SECOND HEADING. - HOW THE GHOST APPEARED!

An hour after this conversation I was seated at dinner in the great hall of Byron Abbey. We were a particularly cosy company. I liked the men, and the ladies were absolutely charming. As the new arrival, I sat on the right of Lady Mary; next to me was Alice, and opposite us were Colonel Bartle and Monte Gaunt: the foot of the table was taken, of course, by Arthur himself.

'Well, Harwood,' said Monte Gaunt, a tawny giant of six feet four, 'I hope you have made up your mind to a good day's shooting to-morrow. We are going to take Scales Park: a thirty miles jaunt at least.'

'I don't expect you will see Mr. Harwood with you to-morrow,' observed Alice, slily.

'Why not?' asked Colonel Bartle, an officer of Indian Irregular Cavalry. 'We could not go out without the Phe

nomenon.'

I may here remark, en parenthèse, that Bartle (who had been at school

Her ladyship was unquestionably right. The house stood upon high ground, and it was certainly a little chilly. However, this attack of Miss Alice was the cause of any amount of chaff on the part of the men of the party. Now I don't object to waggery as a general rule, but when one becomes the butt of Guardsmen and brainless Members of Parliament, it becomes rather a nuisance. You see, swells, when they are unaccustomed to magazine writing, are such dull dogs. They get hold of a good idea and run it to death. This may or may not be; however, I can only assert that I was quite pleased to escape to my bedchamber. We all retired early, in anticipation of the toil of the coming day. As Monte gave me my candle he said, with a decidedly silly laugh

Mind, you must be up by eight, Hal-that is to say if the ghost lets you come with us.'

And then they all laughed as if Monte had been a wit of the first water, instead of a very mild idiot indeed! As Alice pressed my hand, she murmured

'I am afraid you are angry with me. I was only in fun-mind you don't go though I really do believe in the ghost.'

I am afraid that I was rather in a bad temper as I entered my bed

room. However, the sight of a cheerful fire went a long way towards restoring me to my usual tranquillity. I took off my tail-coat, assumed my smoking-jacket, lighted a cigar, and made myself comfortable.

'Come,' said I to myself, this is better than those dreary rooms in St. James's Street. How slow young Cecy Sparkler must feel!'

With this I drew up an arm-chair to the fire, and sat down. There is nothing so pleasant as a midnight cigar. As the smoke wreathed round my head, my thoughts wandered away to the fair face of Alice Vaughan.

'She's an awfully jolly girl!' I murmured, with a sigh; 'I half wish I was a marrying man. But, no; the idea is preposterous. I can't afford it. Besides, I am too young to do anything rash of that sort. When I am fifty it will be time to think of settling downnot before.'

Then my fancy led me back to the picture gallery. Once more I was standing in front of the veiled portrait, and comparing the face of Alice with the visage of the White Lady.

The strangest resemblance I ever noticed in my life,' I said, as I got up from my chair, and approached the window. And yet why should I be surprised? The features of a race can be traced in its descendants for generations and generations. And yet it was strange!'

I drew up the blind, and opened the window, and found myself facing the old abbey, now bathed in the moonlight. The place looked awfully solemn in the deep silence of the night. As I stood looking forth, the bells chimed a quarter to twelve, telling me of the near approach of midnight. Midnight!

A thought struck me. Midnight was the hour sacred to the White Lady. Of course I did not believe in the old legend, but why shouldn't I test its truth? Nothing would be easier for me than to slip down into the courtyard below, and enter unobserved the precincts of the dead. The moment the thought entered my head I determined upon accomplishing the idea. It seemed to me to be almost the act of a coward to hold back. I hurriedly assumed a Scotch plaid, and made my way noiselessly into the quadrangle. I had little difficulty in opening the doors, as they were but rarely bolted, for the Vaughans, living in the midst of their tenants, have nothing to fear from thieves. Once in the open air, I threw away my cigar,

and approached the porch of the abbey. I pressed the door, found it ajar, and entered the sacred building.

A wildly beautiful sight met my view. The moonlight streamed through the stained-glass window, and fell in fantastic splashes of colour upon the ruined tombs. The place was very solemn, and seemed to be haunted with the awful silence of the dead. I walked towards the altar, and my footfall upon the stone flags echoed through the aisles. As I crossed the scene of the tragedy acted so many years ago, midnight was chimed in the belfry above me. The last stroke of twelve reverberated and died away, and then a strange dread filled my soul with vague uneasiness. I was standing in front of the altar, and did not dare to turn round. It seemed to me that some horrible presence was approaching towards me that I was in the company of the phantom dead!

I don't think I am naturally a coward, but certainly at this moment all my courage left me. I could not help picturing to myself the shade of the curtained portrait standing before me-I could not banish from my mind the details of the dreadful tragedy of Lady Ida's death. I stood with my hand resting upon the altar rails, and listened intently.

Surely I heard a sound.

Yes; the sound was repeated, and repeated again. Some one had entered the abbey, and was walking towards me the footsteps were very faint, and yet in the dead silence of the hour they were as distinct as the quick throbbing of my heart. Impelled by a curiosity born of dread I turned round and started back in terror.

Gliding towards me with sightless eyes and bloodless lips was the White Lady of Byron Abbey! She was swathed in the flowing drapery of the grave, and her hand was stretched out as if in warning. She slowly moved towards me, now bathed in the moonlight, now lost in the shadow until she stood before the high altar-the scene of the tragedy of her husband's death. As she approached I fell back in terror; but enough nerve remained to me to see or rather to hear. When the phantom arrived at the altar, its lips began to move and murmur incoherent words. I listened intently, and found to my horror-to my despairthat those words bore reference to me ! Yes; the White Lady, this ghost of a dead bride, was speaking about mewas claiming me as her own! As I am a living man I heard her murmur

'Harold, my darling, my love! Harold, come to me!'

And she stretched forth her cold white arms, and smiled a ghastly, unreal smile-a smile that froze the very marrow in my bones. And then she turned round, and with the same faint footfall moved towards the door. I saw her in the moonlight, I saw her in the shadow. I looked at her for the last time-she was gone!

An hour afterwards I staggered back to my room; but although I went to bed, the night passed, as far as I was concerned, without sleep or rest.

THIRD HEADING.-HOW THE GHOST
VANISHED.

I am forced to admit that I felt rather ill on the morning succeeding the night of my fright. When my man entered the room to prepare my tub, I ordered him to inform Vaughan that I should not accompany the shooting party-that I was not very well. Then I dressed and went down into the dining-room.

Sorry you're not up to the mark, old fellow,' said Arthur, got up in knickerbockers and gaiters. 'It's a splendid day-you'd better come.'

'I'm not up to it, old man; I'm not indeed.'

'You do look rather pale,' said Colonel Bartle, helping himself to some omelette. 'What's the matter with you?'

'Oh, nothing; only a general feeling of seediness.'

'Well; you must come at any rate to lunch. Alice will drive you over, and then if you're better you can have a gun for the afternoon.'

Shortly after this the men started on their expedition. I saw them through the window getting into the trap, attended by dogs, and accompanied by keepers. Then I returned to the table, and taking up the Pall Mall Gazette' that had arrived by the morning post, began listlessly to discuss my breakfast.

I had scarcely read one 'occasional note' ere the door was thrown open, and Alice, dressed in a charming morning costume, entered the room. She looked deliciously fresh and lovely: I rose from my chair and greeted her heartily.

"You look worried,' she said, as she took her place at the head of the table; 'what is the matter? I hope no bad news.'

'Oh dear no; only a little knocked up, I think.'

'What! by the exertion of doing nothing in town? Come, that won't do, Mr. Harold. Why, you look as frightened as if you had seen a ghost-perhaps you have.'

Alice, if I tell you something will you promise not to chaff me?'

'It depends,' she said, with a smile. 'It would be rather a triumph to have a story about you. But there, my curiosity is the victor. I promise.'

'Well, last night I-I saw theghost!'

Alice put down her cup and laughed merrily.

You may laugh, Alice, but on my word of honour what I tell you is true. I saw the ghost of the White Lady last night as plainly as I see you.'

Noticing that I was annoyed at her levity, Alice became more serious (although every now and then a smile would play upon her lips), and asked me for the particulars of my adventure. I told her my story as I have written it down here, with one trifling suppression. I left out the strange avowal of love that the ghost had made to me before quitting the abbey. Women are so jealous, you know.

It is certainly most strange,' said Alice when I had done. But how silly of you to go into the abbey at that time of night; you might have caught your death of cold. You want looking after.'

Who cares for me?' I asked, rather sentimentally.

'I should say no one,' replied Alice, with a smile, except perhaps

'Well?'