without seeming to use its feet--and was gone. The uncle of my
brother's wife, exclaiming, "Good Heaven! It's my cousin Harry,
from Bombay!" put spurs to his horse, which was suddenly in a
profuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange behaviour, dashed
round to the front of his house. There, he saw the same figure,
just passing in at the long French window of the drawing-room,
opening on the ground. He threw his bridle to a servant, and
hastened in after it. His sister was sitting there, alone. "Alice,
where's my cousin Harry?" "Your cousin Harry, John?" "Yes. From
Bombay. I met him in the lane just now, and saw him enter here,
this instant." Not a creature had been seen by any one; and in that
hour and minute, as it afterwards appeared, this cousin died in
India.

Or, it was a certain sensible old maiden lady, who died at ninety-
nine, and retained her faculties to the last, who really did see the
Orphan Boy; a story which has often been incorrectly told, but, of
which the real truth is this--because it is, in fact, a story
belonging to our family--and she was a connexion of our family.
When she was about forty years of age, and still an uncommonly fine
woman (her lover died young, which was the reason why she never
married, though she had many offers), she went to stay at a place in
Kent, which her brother, an Indian-Merchant, had newly bought.
There was a story that this place had once been held in trust by the
guardian of a young boy; who was himself the next heir, and who
killed the young boy by harsh and cruel treatment. She knew nothing
of that. It has been said that there was a Cage in her bedroom in
which the guardian used to put the boy. There was no such thing.
There was only a closet. She went to bed, made no alarm whatever in
the night, and in the morning said composedly to her maid when she