of the government. The State is always informed of my whereaboutsand they take good care that no harm shall befall me. Every where where I go policemen and village headmen" (i.e., starosta) "are posted along the road to watch over my safety. Stop," cried the surveyor suddenly. "Where are you going?"

"Why, can't you see the forest before us?"

"Yes, to be sure, so it is," reflected the surveyor. "But I must try to conceal my alarm. He has probably noticed my fear. Why does he look round so often? He is certainly planning something, curse him. At first he drove so slowly, just a snail's crawl, and now he is tearing along. My good Klim, why do you urge your horse so?" "I am not urging it at all. It gallops of its own free will. If it once begins to gallop, no one can stop it. I don't suppose it likes galloping any than we should."

more

"You are lying, brother. I see plainly that you are lying. I should not advise you to drive too fast. Pull your reins tighter-do you hear? Pull hard."

"Why should I?"

"Because because four of my friends are now driving from the station. I wish them to catch me up. They promised me they would do sojust here by this forest. It will be merrier travelling in their company. They are strong, powerful men-each one has a pistol. Why do you keep looking at me? Why do you wriggle as though you were sitting on pins and needles? What?-Brother, I shall, Brother.-There is no need for you to keep looking at me. I am not at all an interesting person-except perhaps on account of my revolvers. Would you like to see them? I will get them; just wait."

And the surveyor fumbled in his pockets under pretence of finding something, when a totally unexpected event occurred; something which even he, with all his cowardice, never even imagined.

"Help," he screamed. "Help! Help! Take the horse and cart, but spare my life. Help! murder! Help!"

Rapidly retreating footsteps and the crashing of frozen twigs were heard-and all was still.

The surveyor, utterly taken aback by this astounding occurrence, first busied himself in bringing the horse to a standstill, then, seating himself more comfortably in the cart, he began to consider the situation.

"He has certainly run away. The fool was frightened. What is to be done now? I can't drive on alone, for I don't know the road; besides which, people would think I had stolen the horse. What is to be done? Klim, Klim!"

"Klim!" replied the echoes.

A cold shiver ran over the surveyor as he reflected that he might have to spend the whole night in the dark forest, in the cold, listening to the howling of the wolves, the echoes, and the snorting of a hungry horse.

"Klimuschka," he cried, "where are you, my good fellow? Where are you, Klimuschka ?"

For two whole hours the land surveyor sat and shouted; and not until he had shouted himself quite hoarse, and had become reconciled to the prospect of spending the night where he was, did he hear the sound of faint groans, borne towards him by the night wind.

"Klim, my good man, is that you? Do let us drive on."

"You want to murder-murder me." "I was only joking, my good man. May God punish me if that is not the truth. What kind of revolvers do you imagine that I carry? In my own terror, I was lying to you. Be so good as to drive on with me. I am nearly frozen."

Klim, who had apparently reflected that a real highwayman would have gone off with the horse and cart long before then, crawled out of the bushes

senger.

"Driver, to the Wiburger suburb," hears Jona. "Driver!"

Jona starts, and from between his snow-laden eyelashes sees an officer in cloak and hood.

"To the Wiburger suburb!" repeats the officer. "Are you asleep?"

As a sign that he understands, Jona gathers up his reins, thereby causing great flakes of snow to fall from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer seats himself in the sleigh. The driver clicks with his tongue, stretches his neck like a swan, and cracks his whip more from force of habit than necessity. The horse stretches out his neck, bends his wooden legs, and sways from side to side in an undecided manner.

From the dark swerving mass be

snow

Twilight has set in. Great flakes circle slowly round the street lamps, sinking in thin soft heaps on the roofs, on the horses' backs, on men's shoulders and caps. The driver, Jona Potapow, is as white as any ghost. He sits on the coachbox in as crooked a position as a human body can possibly assume, quite motionless. Apparently, he would not think it necessary to shake the snow off, even if an entire snowdrift fell on him. His little horse stands quite still, also covered with snow. Rawboned and knockkneed, it is for all the world like one of those gingerbread horses that you buy at the fairs. It is, apparently, deep in thought. If you take a horse away from the plough, tear it away from its surroundings, and immerse it in this whirl of strange lights, of hurrying men and incessant noise, it can surely not do otherwise than think.

It is some considerable time since Jona and his horse have remained in the same place. They began their day very early in the morning, but nobody had required their services. Now the evening mist is covering the town. As the darkness deepens, the pale light of the street lamps grows more brilliant

you going, you devil's limb? What are you trying to do? Keep to the right. You don't know how to drive. Keep to the right," repeats the officer wrathfully.

The driver of another carriage swears at him. A foot-passenger who wishes to cross the road and knocks up against the horse's head glares furiously at him as he shakes the snow from his sleeve. Jona wriggles on his box as if he were sitting on pins and needles, flings his arms about from side to side, and gazes helplessly around him as if he failed to understand where he was or what he was doing.

"What rogues there are in this world!" cries the officer. "All these people seem determined to collide with you and your horse. There is certainly a conspiracy against you."

Jona looks round at his fare and moves his lips. He evidently wishes to say something, but only a hoarse murmur escapes his throat.

"What?" says the officer. Jona forces a smile to his lips, clears his throat, and says huskily: "Sir. I have lost-my son-died this week.

sir."

"Ha! what did he die of?"

"Are you asleep, old fool? I shall soon belabor you with my fists. If one talks gently to people of your kind one would have to walk. Do you hear, old house? Or don't you care a kopeck for all I say?"

Jona hears, much more than he feels, the blow on the neck which accompanies the words." "Ho, ho!" he laughs. "What merry gentlemen! God send you good health!" Without regard for his age or his evident distress of mind they abuse him and strike him; but he heeds it not, and, indeed, is rather pleased than otherwise, for it distracts his attention from the grief which gnaws at his bosom and oppresses him. One nail drives out another. If you tread on the tail of a cat who has toothache, she feels better directly.

overflow, it would overwhelm the world, although at present it is quite invisible. Sorrow oft hides itself in such unostentatious guise that it passes entirely unobserved even in broad daylight. Jona sees a man-servant with a sack in his hand, and decides to begin a conversation with him.

"My friend, what time is it?" he asks.

"Ten o'clock. What are you doing here? Drive on!"

Jona drives about ten paces further off, sits crouched upon his box, and abandons himself to his grief-he is at last convinced of the futility of his attempts to get sympathy from his fellow men. But scarcely five minutes. have elapsed before he gathers up his reins, shivering as if in a sudden access of pain. He can no longer bear it.

"I? Ho, ho, what merry gentlemen! Only one wife remains for me-Mother Earth. Ho, ho, ho! that is to say, the grave! My son is dead, and yet I am alive. It is a queer thing that Death should have mistaken the address. Instead of coming to me, he went to my son." And Jona turned round to relate to the young men how his son died, when the humpback declared, with a sigh of relief, that, thank God, they have arrived at last.

He receives his twenty kopecks, and looks after the young men long after they have vanished into a dark entrance. Once more he is alone, and once more begins the feeling of utter loneliness. The grief that has been lulled for so short a time begins afresh to gnaw his heart-strings, and threatens to break them. Jona's eyes, full of grief, follow restlessly the masses of people who flit past him on both sides of the street. Amongst all these thousands is there not one who is prepared to listen to him? Nothing is so beautiful as human sympathy. But every body rushes past, leaving him alone with his sorrow. His sorrow is immeasurable, passing all bounds-if his breast were to burst, and his sorrow to

And as if the horse had guessed his. thoughts, it breaks into a trot. Half an hour later, Jona is sitting by the big dirty stove. On the shelf above, on the floor below, on the benches around. everywhere men are sleeping. The atmosphere is stale and close. Jona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches his ear, and regrets having returned so early. "I have not even earned the price of a feed of oats," thinks he, "that is why I am so sad. A man who attends properly to his business, whose horse is well fed, and whose own stomach is full, is always happy. A young driver rises from the corner of the room, coughs sleepily, and goes to the water-jug.

"You are thirsty, brother?" asks Jona.

"As you see, I am thirsty."

"Ah, well, I hope you will enjoy your drink. But, brother, do you know that my son is dead? In hospital this week. You may perhaps have heard of it. It is quite a history."

Jona watches the effect of his words, but fails to perceive that they make any impression. The driver has covered up his head and is already asleep again. The old man sighs and scratches his ear. The thirst for sym

It is nearly a week since his son died, and he has not yet had an opportunity of talking over the misfortune with anybody. It is a thing to be discussed calmly, soberly. One must tell how the son fell sick, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. His funeral must be described, as well as the visit to the hospital to fetch away the dead man's clothes.

Away in a little village lives his orphan child. Anissja-she must be talked over. Is all this then little or nothing to talk about? The listener should sigh and groan, breathe broken words of sympathy. Women make particularly good listeners. Although they are mostly fools, still they generally begin to cry at once.

"I had better see to my horse," thinks Jona. "It will be time enough to sleep afterwards."

He dresses and goes to the horse's stall. He thinks about oats, hay, and the weather. When he is alone he dare not think of his son. To talk about him to some one else is all very well, but alone, to think of him, to recall his presence that is beyond his strength.

"Are you feeding?" says Jona to his horse, as he sees its eyes shining in the darkness. "Well, eat away. When we can no longer pay for oats we must eat hay. Yes, I am too old for driving. My son ought to have driven, not I. He was a right good driver-he should have been alive now." Jona is silent for a little while and then begins again. "So it is, dear little mare, Kusmu Ionitsch is no more-he desired to live longer-but he died without further ado. Suppose you had a foal, and that you were that foal's real live mother? -your foal desired to live long, but it died. Would you not be sad about it?"

The mare munches away, listens and breathes gently on her master's hand. With a sudden inspiration, Jona relates everything to his little mare.

From The Cornhill Magazine. GHOSTS AND RIGHT REASON. The editor has asked me to say something about ghosts and the ghostly: I therefore venture to make an appeal in favor of a rational treatment of the topic. It is certainly an objection to all such studies that they seem to lower the logical tone of most inquirers. One scarcely knows whether believers or unbelievers are the more prejudiced and the less reasonable. One devotee of modern science bids us reject the whole theme, because it may produce a recrudescence of superstition! This is worthy of "the dreadful consequences argufiers," as Professor Huxley called some of his orthodox opponents. cannot reject Darwinism because it is wrested into an excuse for immortality by M. Daudet's "Strugforlifeur," or M. Bourget's "Disciple;" nor can we refuse to examine evidence for the called "ghostly" because it may encourage other fools in other follies. Truth is to be sought heedless of consequences; so the scientific people keep telling us.

We

SO

On the other side, even scientific reasoners, eminent in their own field, when engaged on ghostly territory often neglect all rules of logic and common sense, if they are inclined to believe. They prefer the unestablished, unverified, barely conceivable, abnormal explanation to a well-understood vera causa, and think it more likely that a lady went to church "in the spirit" than that she went in a cab! They even err about plain matters of geography, through a recklessness which, in other speculations, would never tempt them.

If the Scribes and Pharisees (and Sadducees) of Science, on both sides, do thus err, who can marvel at the blunders of Publicans and Philistines, and Spiritualists? Whenever ghosts are spoken of certain elderly fallacies are invariably reproduced.

(1) "Nobody ever knew any one who had seen a ghost; we only meet people who know somebody who saw one." Taking "ghost" merely as a popular de