of Writers' Buildings. The rain, a fine, sandlike rain, was driven in masses by the wind, fitfully-rushing across the square, and into every casement, and against every door-way in the wildest way, as if seeking a refuge from the irregular blasts that lashed it along.

The young civilian wrapped himself up in a voluminous boat-cloak before facing the storm, and, nail and hammer in hand, issued into the square. The door closed behind him. The oil lamps-for the City of Palaces does not even yet boast gas—the oil lamps had been all extinguished. The night was dark, and not a living thing was to be met with in the streets.

Getting more and more nervous, more and more excited, as he advanced, the young man made his way along. He groped through the church-yard; the tombs dancing before himas the wind swept over them, and the rain flickered in sheets-dancing before him, in a wild, warning maze. It was no joke to walk through the dark church-yard that gusty night, or to reach the wooden tomb in the midst, with the rain gushing like a cataract against his face, and the wind blowing the large boat-cloak about in a voluminous entangling way.

At length, his faculties wound up to a great effort, excitement wild within him, the young civilian gained the wooden tomb. He felt about for a convenient place to drive in the nail. It was a large nail, and the wood was soft. The hammer was raised, and the iron was easily driven into the half-rotten timber. His task was accomplished-but the tombs had been dancing before his eyes in an unearthly reel all the time, and he doubtless fancied a thousand spirits were shrieking at his unhallowed task, as the wind groaned amongst the tombstones, and whistled round the church-porch, and grated through the wire-protected windows. Twelve o'clock was booming forth from the tower.

His task was accomplished. He had driven in the large nail nearly to the head. With the hammer still in his hand, he turned to leave the gloomy burial-ground-turned quicklywas seized by the neck-was checked suddenly from behind—and fell, in a fit or faint, insensible to the ground.

Within the Writers' Buildings the revelry continued.

"The wager will be won," said one; "he

will return forthwith-a hundred rupees easily earned."

'I would not do it for a thousand,” said another.

That was he, as he shut the door behind him, that leads into the corridor," suggested the first.

No, it was but the wind.

"A glass to the ghost of the wooden tomb!" and, in heedless mirth, a bumper was quaffed all round, with much laughter.

"He delays long," is whispered round the table, as one after another peeps at his watch, and discovers that it is past twelve-he had been half-an-hour gone, and more. They drank, laughed, told tales again; half-an-hour more glided by. He had been more than an hour away! and the wind still blew and the rain still fell, sheet-like, as before. Faces that had been joyous grew more and more grave; flushed cheeks became pale; the mirth had given place to anxiety and alarm.

A few minutes more, and they issued forth in a body, with servants and lights, to see what had become of their friend.

They entered the church-yard. They ad

vanced near to the wooden tomb, and there, upon the frowzy grass, lay their late boon companion, half shrouded in his boat-cloak,insensible.

They examined his cloak. It was nailed to the tomb. In his hurry and agitation, he had driven the nail through the fold of his cloak, as he struck it home with hard, quick blows into the timber. He had turned, alarmed, agitated, excited, to depart-the cloak had grasped him by the neck, and, overpowered with sudden emotion, he had fallen sideways upon the ground.

When his companions lifted him from the ground, they found that they bore a corpse in their arms. He had fallen in a fit, from which he never recovered. Excitement and terror had killed him.

CHAPTER XII.

PER PORRINGER TO ADEN.

It is with pleasure that the exile of a few years turns his back upon the scene of his banishment, and commences the journey that is to lead him to the land of his birth and of early associations. Beautiful as may be the country; magnificent the buildings; picturesque the views, he leaves them all behind, without regret and without a sigh. Even the discomforts of a steamer, and the incessant tremor in which the luckless voyager is kept by the vibration of the machinery, are disregarded and made light of. The eye is fixed on a far distant shore, which presents attractions far superior to any other-attractions that the mind feeds upon during the long voyage without fear of satiety.