silvery voice. "You wouldn't turn her out in this cold winter, when she can't pay you,—would you, pa?" "Why don't she get another house, and swindle some one else?" he replied, testily; "there's plenty of rooms to let." "Perhaps she can't find one, pa," answered Netty. "Humbug!" retorted her father; "I know better." "Pa, dear, if I were you, I'd turn out that rumseller, and let the poor woman stay a little longer; just a little, pa." "Sha'n't do it. Hah! that would be scattering money out of both pockets. Sha'n't do it. Out she shall go; and as for him,—well, he'd better turn over a new leaf. There, let us leave the subject, darling. It vexes me. How did we contrive to get into this train? Bah!" He drew her closer to him, and kissed her forehead. She sat quietly, with her head on his shoulder, thinking very gravely. "I feel queerly to-day, little Netty," he began, after a short pause. "My nerves are all high-strung with the turn matters have taken." "How is it, papa? The headache?" she answered. "Y-e-s—n-o—not exactly; I don't know," he said dubiously; then, in an absent way, "it was that letter set me to think of him all day, I suppose." "Why, pa, I declare," cried Netty, starting up, "if I didn't forget all about it, and I came down expressly to give it to you! Where is it? Oh! here it is." She drew from her pocket an old letter, faded to a pale yellow, and gave it to him. The ghost started suddenly. "Why, bless my soul! it's the very letter! Where did you get that, Nathalie?" asked Dr. Renton. "I found it on the stairs after dinner, pa." "Yes, I do remember taking it up with me; I must have dropped it," he answered, musingly, gazing at the superscription. The ghost was gazing at it, too, with startled interest. "What beautiful writing it is, pa," murmured the young girl. "Who wrote it to you? It looks yellow enough to have been written a long time since." "Fifteen years ago, Netty. When you were a baby. And the hand that wrote it has been cold for all
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