A Christmas Mummy.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXI, Issue 310, 29 December 1900, Page 2 (Supplement)

A Christmas Mummy.

By RICHARD MARSH

Author of " The Beetle : A Mystery," " The- House of Mystery," etc., etc.

' They were carrying a long box. tJnele was at one end, a shabby man was-at the other. I thought he looked dreadfully shabby, as if he had not shaved for a week.

The box was over six feet long. It had no handles. Uncle seemed to have as much as he could do to lift his end. I wondered why he was acting as porter, instead of calling one of the servants. , Aunt is always saying that he will do things which he ought not to do, but when it comes to hauling about great wopden cases which weigh a ton, he ought to draw the line.

Of .course, I don't know that it ■weighed quite a too, but it looked as if it did. And just as they were entering the study Uncle stumbled, caught his foot over the mat or something, his end nearly slipped out of bis hands, and all but came with a crash, to the floor. The man at the other end—the shabby man—turned quite white, I could see it through his dirt. He used the most terrible language. 'Tor God's sake," lie gasped, "take care what you are doing!" Uncle's slip seemed to disturb him to an extraordinary degree, much more than was apparently warranted; as if something truly awful had nearly, happened. At dinner my curiosity got the upper hand —it sometimes does; I don't know why—but. that's the way with me. "Uncle, excuse my asking you, but what was in that box I saw you take into the study?"

Uncle has little ways of his own. 'And one of them is that, sometimes, when you ask a question, iand h.e» knows you want an answer, he likes to keep you waiting. As hfe did then. He held his glass of wine up to his eye, looking at it as if he had never seen such a colour before. Then he put it down, twiddling with the stem, •and staring straight in front of him as if I had never asked him a question, at all. So I had to ask him again. "Uncle, what was in that box?" Then he did answer—in his mos% impressive voice—a. sort of basso-pro-fundo.

"A mummy." W4« were all quite startled; Aunt in particular. "A mummy!" she exclaimed. "Augustus, what do you mean?" Then it all came out. To-morrow was Christmas Day. Lots of people were coming to the house and heaps to the barn—the big barn, I mean, it holds numbers. It had been cleaned out and decorated, and looked quite nice. There was to be a Christmas tree and all sorts of things. PraCtically all the country-side had been incited, and everyone who had been asked would be sure to come. And a. man had come up to see Uncle who was travelling through the country with a mummy-of all things! It seemed to me to be a ■dreadful notion. He went to schools and those sort of places, and ■**£*£ the mummy, and gave a little-lecture, Tvhich was partly explanatory + and (partly historical, and partly scientific, and partly entertaining, and partly educational, and a little of everything. He had suggested that would be just the thing ieople-the mummy and the lecture. End apparently Uncle had agreed; toi ta hadL arranged that the m^wa rto be one of the Christmas Day at •tractions in the barn. "The fact is," he admitted, ftetel To his yara-though he doesn^j ««n ito have found it a, very profitable sort of exhibition." . • .. "And do you mean to say," observed 'Aunt, "that that mummy is actually an. your study at this moment/ "I do. But you needn't be afraid. It's locked up tight, s o that it's hardly likely to celebrate Christmas Eve getting- up to take' a little exercise.' "Augustus! how can you say such things!" Aunt shuddered; she is a little fanciful. "It's really like having a corpse in the house." "Exactly. A mummy is a corpse, 1 suppose. At least, we'll hope it is." "Augustus! I don't like you to talk like that. And before the children-, too." Aunt always calls us children, and I'm eighteen. "If I'd known I'd have taken care that such a thing didn't come into my house—and on Christmas Eve of ' all times in the year!" Uncle chuckled; he does tease Aunt, end sometimes she is trying. "Then it's just as well you didn't know. But it's like this, my dear. This part of the world is not overpopulated; the man's a perfect stranger, and he didn't know where to store if so as to have it handy lor to-morrow. So I said, 'Pop it in thfl study!' and in he popped it." Uncle raised his glass to his lips. I 'don't know if he was really solemn,' but he pretended to be. "Thus we shall have to-night in this house an illustrious companion. The mortal 'remains of him or her—l omitted-to inquire whether it was a masculine or feminine mummv —who, perchance, graced the splendid court of a glorious Pharaoh whose very memory is covered by the dust of time. Perhaps to-night it will dream—excuse the neuter —of the music. of the sacktmtt and psaltery; so that if, in the ' silent watches of the night We are 'wakened hy-the sounds of mystic •trains, we shall know that we are

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[Copyright.]

listening to the ghostly echoes of the ancient substitutes for trombones and violins. I drink to you, 0, mummy! A Christmas greeting!" Aunt did not altogether' like the way in which Uncle talked, but the boys - made fun of it—especially George. Of course, George makes fun of everything, without considering for a moment whether it ought or ought not to- be treated seriously. I am ! sorry to say that is his way. I have j told' him ot his fault over and over I again; but he doesn't seem to mind, I and I'm afraid that he even ma.kes ; fun of me. But plainly, that's simply I his bad manners. ' It was just as we were thinking j about going to bed that Clara came j to me and said: I "May, let's go and look at papa's

mummy." '"We can't," I answered. "It's in a box; and didn't you hear Uncle say that the box is locked?" "Then let's go and look at the box." "We can't even do that; the study's locked." a . , "How do you know?" The truth was that, happening to pass the study, I half-accidentally turned the handle, and found that the door was locked, as I explained to Clara, who was positively rude. She seemed to think that I was devoured by an altogether unnatural curiosity, which was absurd. Besides, she was as curious as I was—at least. "I expect I know where the key is," she exclaimed. 'CI shouldn't be surprised if:it was in the pocket of the coat which papa was wearing before dinner; he always does leave things like that in his pockets. I'll go and see."

She went and saw, and she was right. Uncle had left the key in his pocket. Clara re-appeared with it in her hand. She marched me straight off- to the study door. "Now, we'll see what a mummy looks like, at anyrate from outside the box." She unlocked the door. Within the room was all in darkness. "You wait here," she cried, "while I go and get a candle." Hut I didn't see it. It's all very well to laugh, and there are people who will laugh at anything. Still the fact remains that there was a corpse inside the room, because a mummy, as Uncle himself admitted, is a corpse, and the most callous person might reasonably object to be left alone in such society. So I made an alternative suggestion ■ "I'll go and fetch the candle and you wait here." So we went off and fetched a candle together; one of the bedroom candles, which were in the hall at the f.oot of the stairs. We lighted it and went into the study hand in hand. There was the box upon the chairs, a dreadful looking thing, so long and narrow and cold and bare and suggestive. "Looks like a sort of a kind of egg

I box." As lam continually telling her, Clara's ideas will grovel. "And as if it had been rolled in the mud." "It looks to me," I observed, "as if it concealed a mystery—some thing of horror, some hideous crime." "Don't! You make me creep." She clutched me tighter. "Let's go closer." "Thank you, I'm close enough. I prefer not" to encroach, to regard a corpse from a distance." "Stuff! What are you afraid of? And I wish you wouldn't call it a corpse. It's a. mummy. And I don't call standing six yards oft looking at it, as if you were afraid the thing would bite. May, don't be disagreeable. Come." I went because she dragged me. And she actually put the lighted candle down upon the lid. I couldn't have done such a thing myself for worlds. It seemed like sacrilege. And she tapped upon the box—literally tapped with her knuckles!—upon the top and sides, and ends--all over it, in fact. I am willing to admit that nothing happened, but the ictea of what mighTi happen was not a pleasant one to contemplate. She even called to the thing inside. '..,„,. x, t "Mummy, this is Christmas Eve. 1 wish you a merry Christmas and a happy "New Year. Do you hear me/?" If the mummy had heard and mentioned it I am sure that I don't know what we should have done. Still lam vvil'lin"- to own that my own sense of awe was wearing off with familiarity. I be<mn to realise that the box was onlv°an ordinary looking box after all and not so much unlike the egg box to which Clara had compared it. It was not very solid. It would-not have required much exertion of strength to have forced it open. I believe that George, whose strength really is oio-antic, could have sent his fist through the lid with the greatest of ease the wood of which it was made seemed so thin i and unsubstantial. It was secured merely by a padlock and hasp. • The padlock was a. common "I'm very much mistaken if I haven't o-ot a key which will open that padlock " declared Clara. "Any key almost would d.o: What fun it would be to lav bare the contents of this box oi mystery and enjoy a perfectly private view." . But that I would not have. After all it was not our mummy, if. Uncle had en«ao'ed it. As I understood the Imatterrhis arrangement only applied to a single day, and.we had no right to <no outside the letter of his agreement. So I told Clara. She laughed. "You're very precise. What s the matter with you? Are you still feelin°^a little shaky in your shoes, my dear? You're not generally so particular." That was not true. I am always most particular, as everybody knows. "Ask George," she went on. "J wonder if it is heavy" Before I could make ah attempt te stop her,"which I certainly should havd done if I had had a chance, she took hold of one end of the box, and tried

'to'lift it. The candle was on the lid, 'and, of course, when, .she moved th« 'box sha tilted the candlestick. She, il supposa, either fptrad th» box heavier fleaa aha €Kp«etets or was (startled at 'isssg tfee carulle tilting1. i coafiecfaen.ee was that.. &o far. oa ,1 coxud inakfe cut-* she lost her presented [of mmcl. Becatisei just as I ras put* mug ferat xaj hzv& to prevent that i ekndle toppling right over, shs let. the i*nd of tha bos go right out of hez hands, and in doing so must have tripped against the chair. It went flying —on. to me! And the box falling with. ! a sudden jerk, and finding one chair I missing, must have over-balanced or I something. Anyhow, all in an instant-, i the chair fell over, the box crashed to the ground, and the candle going after jit the room was plunged into sudden i darkness. I "Oh, Clara," I cried, "what have yoi', done?" "Goodness knows," she gasped. "I don't. I —l should think I must have

woke the mummy! | Her A-oice trembled. And well it might. Because through the silence and shadow there came a. sound which froze the blood in our veins. Ido not wish to use exaggerated language, which George says women always do, but I know it almost froze the blood in mine. It must have done, because I felt so cold—icy from top to toe. The sound was like the. sound of a groan; indeed, of several groans, because I should think there must have been a dozen at least. As Clara, afterwards graphically put it —she has her graphic moments —it was like a soul in agony. It came from the box — that dreadful box which was lying close to our feet. It was as if, t« promptly punish Clara's impious lev ity, proof positive was being furnished that the mummy had been woke injdeecl. j We listened as though rooted to tho iground, though I Avill say that we did not remain rooted a moment longer than we could help. We tore to the ! door, I first and Clara after me, holding on to my skirt with so much violence that the wonder was that sho ididn't tear it clean out of the gathers.

We retained sense enough to Jock the door when we were outside. We took the key with us, and flew straight upstairs to Clara's bedroom and went right off to bed without saying good night to anyone or breathing a syllable to a soul. Clara insisted on my' sleeping with her, and I am sure I was not unwilling. My own room was ever so far off right at the end of a corridor, comparatively miles away. I would not have gone to it just then all alone by myself for all the gold of the Indies. If some people could only feel what I was feeling then they would know that's no exaggeration. When we had locked the bedroom door and bolted it and lighted all the candles and sat. in front of the fire how we shuddered. It was terrible. I don't actually affirm that my teeth chattered in my head, though if they didn't it was only because they are so firmly fixed that they couldn't anyhow. jßut I do know that I was all over goose flesh, a tiling I never am except in moments of frightful agitation, and that Clara was as white as a sheet, and I shouldn't be surprised if I was whiter. ]t was some time before we could even speak, and when Clara did her voice seemed positively strange. "Oh, May, wasn't it dreadful!" "Clara, don't talk of it—don't!" I closed my eyes as if to shut out some horrid sight, but she would persist. "Did you hear the groaning?" "Did "i? Didn't I! I shall never

cease to bear it." And indeed at that moment, really, the whole air seemed full of groans. "What do you think it was?" "It came from the box." "But, May, mummies don't groan." : "Don't they? It seems they do. What do you know about them, anyhow? Didn't I say they were things of mystery?" "I don't remember it." "I meant, to say it if I didn't. -I ought to have warned you. It shows that you never can be too careful. It was your laying sacrilegious hands upon the box and upsetting it which did it all.'V "I never meant to—you know I never meant to." "Tliat makes no difference. It has never been proved that the dead can't feel —at any rate, not that I'm aware ! of; and now, even if it has, we have i evidence that they can, after they've been dead thousands and thousands

of years, Avhen they're insulted." I "May, siippose it takes to walking iin the middle of the night." j "Clara, don't talk like that—don't, or I shall never dare to close my eyes. Let's get into bed before I'm frightened into fits. I never have had hysterics, Jjut if you put such ideas into my head, after all I've gone through, I know that I shall scream." jWe hurried between the sheets. But i not to. sleep. No, far from it. When iwe had been in bed perhaps half an hour someone rapped at the door. It was aunt. | "Whatever are you two girls doing in there?" T# i. I replied: "We've come to bed. Im going to sleep with Clara to-night. ■We're tired." .'.■"' George's voice came next; he was pretending to speak to aunt. "Tired!" I like that; as though they were evei* tired, those two. I know them. They're planning ■ some mis-

chief; some, nice little pie'eeof. iniquity with which to distinguish themselves to-morrow. That's what they call tired." He shouted to us, "Goodnight, you. poor tired little things; they shall go to sleep then." "Gowl niglxt," I returned, in. ray iciest tone. I had no intention of allowing George to suppose tlia't I appreciated his h'dnaour. After they had gone perhaps a couj pie of minutes Clara spoke. j "Don't you think that we ought to i have told them about my upsetting tha box? I don't like to think of its ly- | ing anj'how upon the floor." | "You should have thought of that before they wen ft Now we shall have to call to them, and then perhaps we mightn't make them hear; and anyhow there'd be a fuss, and if you'd like to try I wouldn't." "But George sleeps in the next room to this, we could easily make him hear."

"Then perhaps you'd like to knock j at the wall and tell him. I can only say that you'll have to do all the telling, I'll not have a hand in it. If George gets scent of what's happened j you'll never hear the last of it; he'll! rind it more amusing than you will." j That consideration stayed her. Clara suffers from George's laughter almost as much as L do; and what I suffer I only know. The night stole on. Exactly how much of it stole on I am not prepared To staro; but I am certain that the leaden hours dragged slowly by, each second seeming- like mi age. Neither of us slept, i have the best of reasons for being convinced of it. For my part I wished that Clara had not referred to that violated box lying anyhow upon the floor. The allusion clung. The picture it conjured up was continually before my eyes; were they open or shut. I saw the pitch blackness of the room, with the resemblance to a monster egg-box amidst the rained chairs, standing first on end, then on one side, then lying a twfsted fragment, in a sort of higgledy-piggledy heap. I wondered what was taking place with-' in; what were its inmate's feelings.

The perpetual recurring of this uncomfortable imagining, which I found it impossible to avoid, wrought my feelings to such a state of nervous tension that, at last, I did not dare to move in* bed, even to the extent of twitching a toe. The silence was intense; I scarcely ventured to breathe. I All at once there was a sound. Not i much of one, but still, to ears so '< keenly set as were mine, untnistake- , ably *a sound. It came again and | again, and again—apparently from the room beneath. It was only when the fact that this was so had been forced upon my consciousness that I remembered that the room beneath was my uncle's study. When I recollected it, on the instant it was as if I were lying in a bath, and I do protest that that's no exaggeration. My limbs were damp, my face and head, and the whole of my body. My hands i were clammy; 1 could feel the perspiration exuding from the pores. It was horrible. i Suddenly there came a voice from behind me. It was Clara's, though it did not sound in the least like hers.

"May, are you asleep?" "No —o." My throat was parched. My voica shook; I could not have steadied it to save ray life. "Do you hear anything?" "Ve —es." 1 should think I did; and at that moment, more plainly than ever, a dreadful sound, like the rending and, tearing of wood. "It comes—from—papa's—study." I never heard anything more frightful than Clara's voice. That alone was sufficient to upset one. It was hoarse and rasping, each word seeming- to come from her after a distinct physical effort. , "Ve —es." That was all the answer I could make. "Oh, May! what shall we do? What shall we do?"

She. broke, without the slightest warning, into something very like hysterics, flinging her arms about my neck, and/ bursting into a frenzy of tears. Ordinarily that would have been to me the final straw; probably I should have also succumbed there and then out of pure sympathy. But for some cause, ,inst then, it had an exactly contrary effect. Her increase of emotion seemed to lessen mine: it

braced me \m. Perhaps it was because I had a dim consciousness through it nil that if I, too, gave way. thincs miffht roach a pretty pitch. I tried to sonthe'lier. "Come, Clara, don't be a goose. It's nothing. Tt's—only—someone in •uncle's stndA r." I confess flint therfl wr><? a luni™ in my throat which T should have, liked to hnve been rid of./ Yet my oomnarativp cnlmnpes seemed to re-net on her. Shp regained some vestige of Pelf-control. "But who ran be in nnpa's study at this hour?" Then thpre fame another mirst. - "Oli. Mov. U'«? that mummy walking in t.hp nicM!"

Someone pppmed to he wnlidng. or doin"1 something e.iTnmis. There was n noisp ps of something- fallinc fhpn flic sou^d ns of nroans. pronTi sifter •i-roan. It really was awful to' listen to. Clara began again, burying her

face on my shoulder, and trembling, so that it seemed to me that she must bo shaking1, not only the bed, but the room as well, "Ola, May, the- groans! the gr?aaaf • Don't you hear th« groans?" I most emphatically diti. And- I .immediately decided upon a course of action, which, now tnai I look badf, makes me marvel at my own courage. It just shows what one can do wli^n one is roused- I put Clara away ivom me, and began to g"«t out of bed. "May," she cried, '( w f hat are you going- to do?" "I. ana going to call George. He may do and say what he pleases, but this has got beyond a laughing- matter so far as I am concerned." "Don't leave me!" she exclaimed. "Oh,-May, don't leave me!" "I am not going- to leave you. Put on your dressing-gown, and we will. go together. There is no need to be

■afraid. We have done nothing wrong. God will take care of us. . I daresay 1 spoke more valiantly 'than I felt. 1 know I was trembling j all the time I was putting on my ! dressing-gown. But I did put it on, J and so did Clara. And we went to I George; or, rather, we went as far jas George's bedroom door. It was not done on the instant—l don't pretend it was —it was the work of time. Indeed, it was only after a. fresh burst of vyroaning- that we managed "to screw our courage to the sticking point, or whatever they call it, and to venture out into the passage. "We each carried a candle, and we held tight to each other, and we shivered—oil, it was cold out in that passage—and I knocked at George's door. I had to knock three times —I jonly wish that I could sleep like that when there's someone, hammering at !my door—and when he did answer it ; was with such a shout that we almost dronned the candles, he startled us so. j "What's the row?" he cried. | "Oh, George, please do come to us 'quickly. It's Clara and I, and it is so "cold, and there's someone in the study, and oh! we think—the —mummy's—

walking." I belive I nearly cried. Clara says I did quite. But of that lam not sure; slie was not exactly qualified to judge, ami I was a chaos of emotions. George, to judge from the way,in which he answered, did not seem to be in the least surprised. It might have been the most commonplace event for him to be woke up in the middle of the night to be.informed that a-thousand-of-years-dead-aud-buried mummy was walking. "That's all right. Don't you worry!" As if we could .help worrying". "Wait a minute, and I'll be with you in half a second." He was not with us in half a second —it was ridiculous of him to pretend he could be —but' he was with us in a remarkably short space of time. When he saw us he stared with all his eyes, as if the sight of us filled him with amazement: and I daresay we did present a shocking speetaele. It was only to be expected, after all that we had gone through. "What on earth's the matter? What are you doing here at this time of the nis-ht. You'll catch your deaths of cold." We knew it; we were convinced of it. But under the circumstances, what else could we tlo? Necessit3' knows no master. "Oh, Georgo," I began, "there's someone in Uncle's study." Then Clara followed. "We're Trightened half out of our senses." "And ,we think it's the mummy walking." "We're sure of it."1

George looked at us hard, with a twinkle in his eye; I never did see anything like that twinkle in George's eye, it's always there. I felt that he was laughing at us even in that awful moment. His words showed that he was. This was what he said. "Are you sure you haven't been dreianiang? Perhaps you've eaten .something which has disagreed with 3'ou; you sometimes do, you know." After all we had endured! And the courage with which we'd borne it! Clara gave it to him —as well as she could. "If you onty knew how we've lain awake all night in ag-ony you. wouldn't talk so cruelly." • Then I came in. "Perhaps if you quite realised that! vro've suffered enough to turn our hair white, then you wouldn't laugh at us. That dreadful mummy walking about the study for an hour or more. And doing it at this moment, too. If we have been dreading, and have eaten something which disagreed with us, though we came to bed starving hungry, pray what's that?" j There I did score, and George was obliged to own it; because even as I was speaking, there came a sound which was sufficient to waken the dead. But it only seemed to entertain George, and to induce him to show signs of genuine interest at last. He came out into the passage and listened, with the twinkle in his eye more marked than ever. "Hullo, someone skittling? Sounds like larks! This is a case for inquiry. We will inquire." j

He went rmd got *i hockey stickthough what use he thought that would be in a, conflict with a mummy is mor« than 1 can say—and he started •doTTOistaiKs. ' VT« accompanied him., not because he wanted us, but because vre insisted on going. >"ot for anything would we nave stayed behind. After all, be was a man; and there are times when the msre neighbourhood of a man 'is absolutely eoiaforting-. Of course, Avhen we reached the study we found that we had forgotten the key.. Then Clara remembered that she had left it in the bedroom. So we returned to fetch it. We would not let George go without us, and we would not go without him, so we all went back together. After we had made sure of the key we were again | outside the study door. The most ex- | traordinary sounds were proceeding 'from within, as if someone was in Victual botfly P'™l* and> irL conse~ quence, was crying. Such crying, too! Such wails and moans and groans. How a mummy who had been dead, at what perhaps was a moderate estimate thousands and thousands of years, could go on like that was beyond my comprehension. Even supposing that something like a miracle had taken place, and the mummy had been suddenly resurrected, such conduct was, to say the least, undignified and not at ail in keeping. One hardly expects a mummy, on being restored to life, to commence at once to cry. It seems absurd. I could see that George was puzzled. As he put the key into the lock he said to us: "There's something here which requires explaining. That mummy's of a special brand, unless I'm wrong. You two had better keep clear, in case of a rush from inside; and, whatever you do, don't let- the candles go out, they're all the light we've got." He opened the door, but there.was no rush. On the other hand the crying and wailing was louder than ever. "Show a light," he said, as he went

We showed him one. As he entered we stuck close to his heels. A most extraordinary sight it was which -met us. A figure was standing- in the centre of the room swaying to and frq. and uttering the most astonishing cries. It was swathed from head to foot in some yellow stuff, which turned out afterwards to be common canvas sacking smeared with yellow ochre. I thought at first it 'was a genuine mummy which had really come to light again. But George at a glance knew better. Ho went striding forward. "What's the meaning of this? Who are you? And what are you doing here?"

"Oh, sir," exclaimed the figure, "thank God you've come. I should have gone mad if I'd been left alone in this dreadful place much longer." "Great Caesar!" exclaimed George. "It's a woman!"

It was a woman, and just as we made the discovery someone tapped at the window from without.

"Lizzie," inquired a. voice from the other side of the pane, "is tha.t you?" "It's my Joe! It's my Joe!" screamed the woman, and she rushed towards the window. George interposed. He gripped her by the shoulder. t "Steady there! -Is this another little game of yours, my. friend? Who may Joe happen, to be?" "It's' my Joe! It's my husband! Let me go to him." We let her go to him. George, indeed, opened the -window for her himself. It was her Husband, standing outside there in. the whirling snow.

It was the most marvellous story of which I over heard, and in spite of what persons may choose to say, I have had some experiences of the world, and of the strange stories which are to be found in it. lam not a child. Eighteen is not young. It is a mere trilling with truth to suggest that it is.

The woman, was the wife of a man named Joseph BushelL' Joseph Bushell was a man who had wandered to and fro over the face of the earth. He had had his ups and downs; in particular he had his downs. He had reported to all sorts of queer ways of making a living. His last speculation had taken the shape of a mummy. He had picked up one cheap at a sale in London. He was a sanguine individual —the sort of man. who, to use his own words, would never say die. He had sunk nearly his last shilling in this "relic of the Pharaohs," as he called it, in the firm persuasion that he had found the road to fortune at last. His idea was to exhibit it to schools and literary institutes and that kind of thing. But the investment turned out a. total failure. Things reached such a x^ass that he actually had. to pawn the mummy. The small amount which the pawnbroker would advance on it was almost the bitterest blow of all. "Fifteen shillings was all he'd lend on that relic of the Pharaohs—every farthing." So he declared, and to prove his words he produced the pawnbroker's

ticket. It was when the fifteen shillings were almost gone tha.t he introduced himself to uncle as he was leaving the magistrate's bench. Uncle engaged his mummy and him there and then for the delectation of the villagers on terms which, from Bushell's point of view, were most liberal. Overjoyed, Bushell rushed off to the pawnbroker to tell him of his good fortune and to entreat for the loan of his mummy, promising to repay the amount which he had advanced out of the fee which uncle was to pay. But the stonyhearted pawnbroker declined to listen to any proposal of the kind. Driven to desperation the Bushells eoncoted what Avas of course nothing but a. swindle, find an astonishingly impudent and daring one, too. Since the mummy was an essential part of the contract and there was no mummy Mrs Bushell decided to try her hand at being mummyfied. Her husband ciovered her with sacking, which he smeared with yellow ochre, hoping to be able to keep the spectators at a sufficient distance from the box in which she was to be immured to prevent, their detecting the imposture. And as they were actually without sufficient means to provide themselves with a night's lodging it was arranged that the supposed mummy should be introduced into the house in the evening, so that at anyrate Mrs Bush ell should ■ have shelter, while her husband was to manage as best he could. All through the night Mr Bushell, like a restless spirit, was wandering to and fro. round and round the house. It was fearful weather. There was a heavy snowstorm, and it was bitterly

cold. He kept wondering- where she Avas and what was happening to her, and more than once was-on the point of coming1 to confess tha importur* and asking fox her back again. Mrs Bushel's plight was sfell more pitifnL Cramped up in ker narrow prison she suffered agonies. Clara s upsetting the bos was the final straw. She had coma down crash upon her head, and unknown to us the box itself had been smashed and a great splinter of wood driven right into her shoulder. The pain was frightful. It was her groans of anguish _ and her frantic efforts to escape which Clara and I lying in bed with our hair standin? up "on end had heard. ' The mummy was exhibited—the real ' mummy. The first thing in the morning uncle himself drove over to the town, and although it was Christmas Day got the "relic of the Pharaohs" out of pawn. The village folks gazed jat it-with rapture—not unmixed with iawe. It was an immense success, i I believe that the Bushells are doing I better now. Anyhow,-uncle has taken them in hand, and when he takes anything in hand he is apt to see it (through. I may mention, as a sort of postscript, 'that George and I are to be married next week, which, perhaps, is one reason why that twinkle is more ostentatiously in his eye than ever. (The End.)