A CHRISTMAS MUMMY.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 7661, 17 January 1901, Page 4

A CHRISTMAS MUMMY.

(By RIOHA'RiD SIA.BSH). ■ ■ ilAiithor of "Tire Beetle : A Myetery," " The.,

Bouse of Mystery," etc., etc.

[All Rights Reserved.]

• They were camrying a long box. Uncle [waa art one end, a shabby man was at the" [other. I -thought lie looked dreacEfully shabHbryi, as if he had not stared! for a week; . : The box -was over six feet loiig. It "had jjio hand! es. Uncle seemed to have as miueh;. :«w\he could. do to lift his end. i wondered (why he was acting as porter, instead' of 'cafl-. iang one of the servants. Aunt 'is always laying that "he will do £himg3 which he ought jnot to <$o, but when it comes to hauling ■•/bout greait. wooden cases which' weigh" a' ton, lie ought to draw the line. '; ,Gf course, I don't tentw thfe* it weighed Iquite a tow, but it Hooked) as if it did. And ; just as they were entering the study Uncle, Iritaanibled, caught his foot over the mat or his end nearly slipped oult •<>f lids hands*, and all but came with a crash jto JJfa« floor. The man atrthe other end — iSlte shaiWhy man — turned! quite -white*, I could: j«ee it through,, his dirt. He used.tihe most Jteraible langiKtge. . - ' " For God's sake," he gapped, take care, jirhia-t yon aro doing!" : i Uncle's slip seemed to distudb him to an extraordunairy degree, much more tftiau- was 'apparently wa-rranted; as if something truly awtfoT had nearly happened. • At dinner my curiosity gpt the upper "hand. .-Mt sometimes does ; I don?* know why— .lut thait's ths -way with one. v "Uncle, esxxso my asking you, but what was in that foox I saw you take into the • ■ Un<sie -lias liiile ways of. his own. And fcne oi them, is -that, sometimes, when you asik a question, and* lie knows you want an »nsHver, he likes to keep ycu watting. As fee did then. He held hiis. gloss of wine up Jto his eye, looking at it as if he had nevervim such a. colour before, then he put It dowar, twiddling with the stem-, and starW straight in foonrof him as if IW jpeve<r asked him a question at all. So I had: jtoaslk hiim again. . . ,„ M Uncle, ■ wfaa* ivas in that bos. : • Then he did answer— in his most smpres»ive voice— ?/ sort of basso-profundo..

"A cniwnmy." ' We- were all quite startled; aunt in parficular. , . j "A mummy!'" she ''Augustus, -what do you mean?" ) , • fhen it all came out. To-morrow was Christmas Day. Lots, of people were comjing to the hoiif^ and heaps to the barn— Ifche big barn, L mean, it holds numbers. fit had been cleaned out and decorated', and looked quite nice. There was to t>e b Christmas-tree and all sorts of things. Practically all the country-side had been fejSwS, and everyone who had ♦ been asked pqvld be- sure to come. j ► And a man had come tip to see uncle who was travelling throuerh the country imth a mummy— of all thinors! It seemed to fee to be a dreadful notion. He went to fcchools and those sort of places, and exfcibited the mummy, and gave a little lecture, which was partly explanatory and >artly historical, and partly scientific, ' and jartly entertaining, and partly educational, md a little of everything. He had; suggested that it would be just the thing to kmuse the village .people — the mummy and: (the lecture. And£ apparently, uncle had agreed; for he had) arranged that the mumjiny was to be one of "the Christmas Day attractions in the bam.

"The fact is," he^admitted, "tie fellow seems to bo in such\ a state of destitution that I felt that I should be doing a good fcurn to bim. as well as to the village folk. They'll like staring at his mummy,' and' listening to his 3rarn — though he doesn't^ teem to have found' it a very profitable sort »f exhibition." . ' „

3 "And do you mean tfo say," observed Runt, "that that 'mumnwrtis actually in your, feudy at this moment?"

" I do. But you needn't be afraid. It's locked up tight, so that it's hardly likely i to celebrate Christmas Eve by getting up to take a little exercise."

"Augustas! how can you say such things !" Aunt shuddered : . she is a little! fanciful. "It's 1 really like having a corpse In the house."

" Exactly. A' mumniy is a corpse, I suppose. At least, we'll hope it is."

.".Augustus ! I don't like- to talk like that. 'Arid before the children,, too." Aunfe-al-. ways' calls us children,, ancf I'm eighteen., ''If I'd known I'd have taken care that such' fa. thing didnft come into myvhouse-^-andi on Christmas Eve of all times in. the year !" Uncle chuckled; he !does tease aunt, and lometimes she is trying. ,' ' ' "Then it's jnst as well you didn't knqw. £ut it's like tihis, my dear. This part, of the world is not over-populated; the man's ft/perfect stranger, and he didn't know where to store it so as to have it . handy for tomorrow. - So I said, 'Pop it in*>the study !' hnd in he popped it." •

Uncle liaised his gflass to has lips. I don't know if he was really solemn, but he pretended, to be.

" Thus we^shall have tonnight in^ this house en ilDustrioos companion. T9ie mortal 7 remains of him or her— l omitted to inquire whether it was a masculine or feminine mummy— who, perchance, graced the splendid oourfc of a glorious Pharaoh whose very memory is covered 'by the dust of time. Perhaps to-night ife will dream— excuse the neuter— of th.c miisic of the Hackbut and (psaltery; so that if,- in the silent watches of the night we are awakened by the sounds of mystic strains, we shall know that we are 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, foul? the boys made fijn, o { it— especially Creorge. Of ■course, George makes fun of everything, without consider-

ing far a moment /whether it ought not to l>e treated seriously. / 1 am » sorry to say that is ids way. I have told : him of his fault, over and over again ; but be doesiv't seem to mind, and I'm- a<fraid : thai ha even makes fun of me, : . But, plainly> that's simply his bad manners. : • i

.Itrwas just as we were thinking about gcm§ to bed that Clara came, to me and said: , . • ■ . ■ .

let's go and look at papa's

"May, munnmy. . . . - , ■ * "We can't,!' I atfswered'. " It's in 'a box ;1 and dicjn't-you Hear-Uilcle say that' the' b*Bx isJocked?" .;..;;::' •'. :. h ';.' .:'' ; | , ; . "Then, let's go and look at tie box.".' .• ' ' "We can't even . cto that ; tlie , study's looked." '■■"..'. ■ • •" •

"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 carious as I was— at least.

"I expect I know where th© key" is," she exclaimed. "I shouldn't be surprised if ifc 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 harid. She mardhed me straight off to the study door.

. " Now we'll see what a mummy looks like — at any rat© from outside the box." She unlocked the door. Within, the room was all in darkness. . -. v

" You wait here," she cried, " while I go and fetch a candle." -

But I didn't see it. It's all veTy 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 j 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 a candle and you wait here.". '

So we went off and fetched a candle' together; one of the bedroom candles which were in the hall ait the foot of <tihe stairs. We lighted it and went into line study hand in hand. There was the box upon three chairs, a dreadful-looking thing, so long and narrow and cold' and bare, and suggestive. .

"Looks like a sort of a kind of an egg box." As lam continually telling her, Clara's ideas will grovel. ' ' And as if it had been rolled in the mvd 1 ."

"It looks to me," I observed, "as if it concealed a mystery — some thing otf (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 pre•far not/ 'to encroach — 'to regard a corpse from a distance."

" Stuff ! What are you afraid of ? . And I wish you wouldn't call i'fc a corpse; it's a mummy. And I dtai't call standing : six' yards off 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 'ha.ye done such a thing myself for worlds ; it seemed like sacrilege. And she tapped upon "tl* box— literally tapped! with her knuckles ! — upon the top and tsidtes, and ends ; all over it, in fact. I am willing to admit that nothing happened, •but 'tihe idea of what might happen was not a pleasant one to contemplate. She even called to the thing inside. " Mummy, tKp is Christmas Eve. I wish you a Merry Christmas amd a Happy New -Year. Do you hear me?"

If the anuinaniy Ihad heard and mentioned it, I am sure that I don* fcnow what we should have done. Sfcffi, lam willing to own iihat my own sense of awe was wearing off, vwitih familiarity. I began to realise that the box was only an oirdinairy -looking box alter aU, and not so much unlike the esg box to/which Clara bad it. It- was nob very solid.- It wouldi not Itiave ifiquired aniuoh exertion of sfcrengtlh to have forced it open. I believe that George, ' whose starenigjth really is gigantic, coullld Kave "eenlt his fist through tihe lid with t!he greatest* of ease, tibe wood' of wihioh it was mads seemed so thin and unsulbstaintial. ' It was secured merely by a. padlock and ihasp; th* padlock was a comtmon one. , J "I'm very anwdh anist«lken -if I haven*t got a key wimcb will open Sat padlock," deClaral ".Amy key almost >wouldl do. What ifun it would be to lay bare the contemte of ite box of myfltery, and 1 enjoy * penfeictily private view." , ' But that f would not have. After- allj it was not our mummy, if Uncle! Shad engaged it.- As 1 understood the ma.lrt«nj ihi^:aa> Tangenn€iKfc only aipjlicd to a single day, and we "had no lighlb -to go outeidie the Jetter of !his agreement. 80 1 told Clara.' She Wftglhed'. . I You're very parecise.. What's the mat" ter witib you? Are you feeling -a little ishaiky an your shoes), my dear? YouVe not. generally so ipartflauSai-." That was not true. I aon always most particular, as everybody Jknows: "Asik Oeorge," she went Oia. "I wonder if it's iheayy."

Before I could make an attempt to etop her, I centainty shorfld have dome

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if I hlad had a, onamee, sihe took hold oi one end' of the Ibox, and tried to life it. The candle was on *he lid, and, of : course, when site anioved'the box, she tilted thej candlestick. She, I suppose,- either found .the box heavier than sihe expected, or was startled at seeing ifahe oaridle itiltamg. The consequence was iiha'ti, so . far as I oouM make out-, she lost hear presence of andnd. Because, just as I was puttiing out miy hamd to prevent that .candle toppling jighib over, she l«t the end of the box go out of her hands, and, in do-ing so, mmst have tripped against the chair. .It went flyiag—^n to one! • And the ■box, faEing with .a sudden jerk, and finding one chaiir andisising, must have over-balaiicedi, or soanethiaiig. . Anyhow,, all ip an instan.t,/the dha-ir fell oven, the box crashed to" the grotina, and the canidie going after it, the aroom was plunged into sudden daifeness. " Oh, Clara," I cried: ' " What have you dione?" ;

" Goodness knows," she gasped. " I don't. I— £ should' think it mtus't have woke that mummy J"; ' Her voice trembled. ■ And well it might. Because, ' through the silence "and! shadow ■tihere caane a sdiund which froze the blood in our .vedms. . Ido not ,iris]> to use exag Igeralted'lamgitiage, which Weorge says women alwaj-s -do-, bit I know it alnjiosb froze the blood in mine. It anust have d'pne, 'because I felt so cold I—icy1 — icy fircwn 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 bcjx ; that dreadful box which was lying close to our feet. It was as if, to promptly punish Clara's impious levity, proof positive was being furnished that the mummy had been woke indeed.

We listened as though rooted to the ground ; though I will 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 she didn't tear it clean out of the gathers. We retained sense enough to lock 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 iaying 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 the 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 peoplte 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 shud<fered. 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 ; but I d*o know that I was all over goose flesh, a thing I never am except in moments of frightful agitation, and that Clara was as white as a sheet, and I should nois.be surprised if I was whiter. It was some time before we could even speak, and wien' Clara did, her .voice seemed positively strange. . " Oh, May, wasn't it dreadful !" "Clara, don't talk of ifc— 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 ■hear 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- seem 9 they do. What do you know about them, anyhow. Didnft 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 1 you. It shows that you never can be too careful. It was your laying sacrilegious hands upon, the box^md upEBttanig it which! did* it all."

" I never meant to — you know I never meant to." ,

" That makes no difference. ' It has never been proved that "the deadi can't feel — at any rate, not that I'm aware of ; and now, even if it has, we have evidence that we can, after they (have been; dead; thousands and thousands of years, when they're insulted."

" May, suppose it takes to walking in the middle of the night."

"Clara, don't talk like that — dont, or I shall never dare *o close my eyes. Let's get into bed before I'm frightened • junto fits. I never have had, hysterics, but. if you put such ideas into my head, after all I have gone through, I know that I shall scream." We hurried between the sheets. But not to sleep. v No, far from it. When we had been in bed perhaps "half-an-hour, someone rapped at the door. It was aunt.

"Whatever are you two girls dtfing in there?"

I replied: "We've come to bed. I'm going to sleep with dara .to-night. We're tired." ,'

George's voice came unfits; he was pretending to speak to aunt.

"Tired! I like that; as though they were ever tired, those.two. I know them. They're planning some mischief ; some nice

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little piece of iniquity with which to distinguish themselves to-morrow. That's what they call tired." He shouted to us ; "Good-night, you poor tired little things; they shall go to sleep then." "* Good-night," I returned, in my iciest bone. I had no intention of allowing George to suppose that I appreciated his humour. After they had gone perhaps a couple of minutes Clara spoke.

" Don't you think that we ought- to have told them about my upsetting the box? $ don't like to think of its lying anyhow upon the floor."

" You should have thought of that before they went. 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 txeorge sleeps in the nexb room to this, we could easily make him hear." "Then, perhaps, you'd like to knock 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, you'll never hear the last of it ; he'll find it more amusing tfiam you will."

That consideration stayed 5 her. Clara suffers from George's laughter almost as much as I. do • and what I suffer I only know. The night stole on. Exactly -how much of it stole on I am nob prepared to state; but I am certain that the leaden hours dragged slowly by, each second seeming like an age. Neither of us slept. I have the best of reasons for being convinced of it. For my part, I wished that Clara had! nofc referred to "that violated box lying anyhow upon the floor". The allusion, clung. The picture it conjured up was continually before niy eyes, were they open or shut. I saw t!he pitch blackness of the room, with the resemblance to a monster egg-box amidst the ruined chairs, standing first on end, then on one side, ■ then lying in a> twisted fragment, in a sort of . higgledypiggledy hoap. . I wondered, what 1 was taking place within ; what were it's inmate's feslings. The perpetual recurring of this uncomfortable imagining, which I found it impossible to avoid, wromrht my feelings to such » state of nervous that, at last, I did not dare to: move in bed. even fo the extent of twitching a toe. The silence was intense ; I scarcely ventured to breathe.

All at once there was a sound. Not much, of one, but stall, to ears so keenly set as were mine^ unmistakably a wand. It came again and again, apparently from 1 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 wag as if I were lying in a bath, and I do protest that that's no exaggeration. -My limfbs were damp, my face, and , head, and the whole of my body. My 'hands were clammy, I could feel the perspiration exuding from the pores. It was horrible.

Suddenly thiere eanie a voice from behind me. It was Clara's, though it did not sound in the least like hers.

"May, are you asleep?" ~N*-o." / My throat was parched. My voice shook ; I could not have steadied it to save my life." "Do you hear anything?" "Ve — es."'

I should think I did; and ; at that moment, more plainly than every a dreadfui sound, like the rending andt tearing oil wood.

"It comes — from—papa's — study." I never heard anything more' frightful than Clara's voice. That alone was sufficient to upset me. It was hoarse and rasping, each word seeming to come from her after a distinct physical effort. "Ye— es."

That was all the answer I could make. "Oh, May! what shall we do? *What shall wo do?"

She -broke, wi'tbput 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 teen to me. the final straw; probably I should have also succumbed there and then out of pure sympathy. But for some cause, just then, it had am exactly contrary effect. Her increase of emotion seemed to lessen mine ; it braced me up. Perhaps it was beeaure I had! a dfim consciousness through it all that if I, too, gave way, things might reach a pretty pitch. I tried to soothe her. ■ ■

"Come, Clara, don't be a goose. It's, nothing. It's— only — someone in uncle's study."

I confess that there was a lump in my throat whioh I should have liked' to have been rid of.' Yet my comparative calmness seemed to re-act on her. She regained "some vestigei of self-control.

"But who oan be in papa's study at this hour?" Then there came another burst. "Oh, May, it's that mummy walking in ; the night!"

Someone seemed to be walking, or doing something curious. There was a noise as of something falling, then the sound as of groans, groa-n after groan. 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 be. shaking, not only the bed, but the room as well.

"Ob, May, the groans! the groans! Don t you hear the groans?"

I most emphatically did. And I'Jmmediaitely decided om a course of action, which now that I look back, makes me marvel at my own courage. It just shows what one can do when one is roused. I put Clara away .from me, and began to get out of bea.

" May, v she criei

" what are you going

to do?"

I am- going to call George. He may <to 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 a.m not going to leave you. Put on, your dtressiaxg-gown, and we wiU gotogetner. There is no need to be afraid We have done nothing wrong. Godi will take caie of us."

I daresay I spake more valiaaifbly fihan I felt. I know I was tremiMing aX the time I was puffctdmg on any d.ressini#.gowri. But I dud put it <m, amid so did Clara. Amid we wen* to George; or, rather,, we went as far as George's bedroom door. It was not done on the instant— l dion't -pretend it was — it was a work of time. , Indeed!, it was onily after a. fresh burst of ,giroaraAng that we managed to screw our coumaige to the sticking point, or whatever they call it, and to veanbure out into the passage. We ea<sh carried a candle, and/ we held/ tight to each o'tiher, and we sJhiiKrered 1 — oh, dt Trias ocvM- out in that passage — amdl I knocked at George's door. I had to knock three times—l only wish. I could 1 sleep like that when there's someone hamimering at my door — anid wihen !he did ans^ver it was witih such a shout 't&at we allnuost diroppedi the candies, he stetrfled us so.

"What's the row?" he cried.

" Oh., George, please do com* to. us quickly. It's Clara and' I, and it is so coldi, and there's someone in the study, and! phi we — think — Hhe — mummy's walbitaig." I ibelieve-5 nearly cried. Olara says I did qiuite. But of 'flha* I am mot sure ; elhe was not exactly qualified to judge, an'di I was a dbaos of emotions. George, to judge firom the way in wiEidi ihe answered, did not seem to be in tihe least surprised. It miigihlb have 'been the most oomrniianplace eventts for iim to be wolce U'D in i3ie mdddle of the niigihit to" be imfonmec! that a thouisainidi-of-yeaTß-dead.--a;ndi-%uriedl mumimy was waJUkimig.

"That's ali Tight. Don't you wonry!" As if we could help worrying. "Wait a miniate, and; I'll be with you in ihallf a second."

He was nob with us in half » second — it was ridiculous of him to pretend he couldl be — bult he was with us in a lemsurfcMy short space of time. When! he saw us he stared •with all his eyes, as if the sigflut of Ufa filled him with amazement ; and 1 daresay we di<J present a shocking spectacle. It was only to be expected, after all that we had cone through.

"What en earth's the matter? What

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are you doing ; here at this time of tlhe imilgiht? You'll catch your deaths of cold." We 'knew it : we '\v-ere convinced' of it. But under tbo circumstances, what else could we do ? Necessity knows no master.

" Oh, George," I began, " there's someone in Uncle's study" Then Clara Mlowad.

" We're fxigfoitenedi half out otf out senses." " Andi we think it's the mummy walking-" , "We'ie sure of dt.'

Gwrg-e looked at us hard,, with a twinkle in 'has eye"; I never did- see anything like that twinkle in George's eye, it's always there. I felt that ixe was laughdng at us even in that awful moment. His wordte showed that he was. This was what he said 1

"Are you sure you ihavetD'b been dreaming? Perhaps you've eaten something which has disagreed with you ; you sometftnes 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. " K you only knew 'how we've lain awake all night in agony you wouldn't talk so cruelly."

Then I cam© in. * ■ . . " Perhaps if you quite realised -that we've suffered eawwiigjh to torn our Hair wUte, then you wouldn't laugh at us. That dreadful mummy walking about the study for an bonirotr more. And doing it at this moment, *00. ' If we havti bean; dreamiing, and have eaten .something which disagreed with, us, though: w© came to bed starving hungry, ia- what'fe that?"

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 drad. But it omly seenwid! 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." . ■ , , , He went and got a ihockey. stick— though ■what use he thoughlt that would be in a conflict with a mummy is more. than_l;can. say— and he started downstairs. We accompanied him, not; because he wanted! us, but because we insisted on going. Not for anything would -w* have stayed behind. After all; he wa« a man; and there are times when tibe mere neighbourhood: of a man is absolutely comforting. _ Of course, when we reached the study we found .that we ha* 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 feck togetiher. Alter we had made sure of tihie key we were again outside the study door The most extraordinary sounds were proceeding from within, as if someone was hi actual bodily pain, and, ,in consequence, was crying. „3 Such crying. too! Such wads and moans and groans.- How a mummy who had been dead, at what perhaps was a moderate estimate thousands and thousands of yeaxs, coxild 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 all in keeping. ' One hardly expects a mummy, on being restored to Life, to commence a* once to cry. It seems absurd. 1 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, unlftss Tmi wrong. You tyro'., had better 'keep clear,,, in, case of a rush from inside; -ana, 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 otiher hand! the crying and wailing was louder than ever. "Show a, light," hie said, as he went, in. .We showed him one. As he entered we stuck close to his heels. A most extraV ordinary sight it was which met us. • , A "tgure was standing in. the centre of the room swaying to and fro andi utterißg. the most astonishing cries. It was swatihed from head 1 to foot in some yellow stuff, which turned out afterwards to foe common canvas sacking smeared; with yellow ochre. I though* at first it was a genuine mummy whdoh had really come to life again. But George at a glance knew 'better. He 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' plate much longer." , . "Great Caesar!" exclaimed George. "It's a. woman!"

It was a woman, and 1 just as we made the discovery something tapped at the window from without.

" Lizzie," inquired a voice from the other side the pan», " is that you?" "It's my Joe! It's any Joe!" screamed the woman, andi she rushed towards", the window. •'

George interposed. He gripped! hen by the shoulder.

" 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 th© window for her himself. It was her husband, standing, outside there in the whirling snow.

It was the most marvellous story of which I ever hfeard ; a»nd,, in spite of what persons may choose to say, I have had some experience 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 mere trifling with truth to suggest that it is.

The woman was the wife of a man named Joseph 1 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 sbad had. his downs. He had resorted to all sorts of queer, ways of making a living. His last speculation jiad, taken the shape of a mummy. He had picked one up 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 va 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 thaib kind of thing. But the investment turned out a total failure. Things reached such a pass tlhat he actually had to pawn 'the mummy. The small amount which the pawnbroker would advance on it was almost tihe bitterest blow of all.

" Fifteen shillings was all he'd lend on that relio 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 that he introduced! himself to Uncle as foe was leaving the magistrate's bench. Uncle 1 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 has good fortune and to entreat for the loan of his mummy, promising to repay tihe amount which;had beea advanced! out of the fee- which; .uncle' was to pay. But th« stony-hearteid pawnbroker declined to listen to any proposal of the kiiwf. ■

Driven to desperation, the Bushells cqq. cocted what was, of course, nothing but a swindle, and am astonishingly impudent and daring one, too. " Since the mummy was an essential part of the contract, and there was no mummy, Mrs Busbell decided to try her hand at being mummyfied. Her husband covered 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 any

her husband' was to manage as best he could.

All tihxougih tne night, Mr Bushell, like a, restless qpirit, was wandering to and! fro, round and round the house. Ifc was fearful weather-. There was a iheavy Eloowstcjnm, and it was. bitterly cold. He" kept wondering where she was, and what was happening to 'her ; and more than once was on the point of coaming to confess the imlpostiUTe and asking for her 'back again. Mrs BusheXTs plight was still (more pitiful. Cramped up in iher narrow prison ebe (suffered agonies. Clara's upsetting , tihe box waa tlhe final straw. She haid ; come down crash upon 'her head* and, unknown, *o us, the box itself- 'had. been, -.smashed!, and a great splinter of wood -<JriV€a right into 'her shoulder. The pain was frigihdM. . It was her groans of aiiffluiahi and tier fraiatic efforts to • ©scape which Clara anid I; lying in bed,- wirbli our hla-ir etanflfeg upon end 7 , had heard.

The iritontaiy was exhibited— the real niunrmy. The first thing in -A3if> morning Uncle himself drove over with .Mr Bushell to the tow©, «md>, although., "lit was ChTlstoas Day, got the "relic of "the Pharaohs " out of pawn. The village folks gazed at it with rapture — root unmixed with awe. It was an immenser success.-- <, I believe that the Bushels are doing better >now. Anyhow, Un'eljb has taken €hem in h&a&, and when he takes ,; anything in nanid h© is apt to see it through.

I may mention, as a sort of poetbcripifc, tha* George and' I are to be mianried n«rb week; wßfcih, perhaps, is one reason why i&a.t*fewinlkle i 8 more oslfcentatiotsly. in his eye than eyer. '' , ..