HE smoking concert at the Bohemian Club had been a great success, and we were all in the best of humors. I was chatting gaily to my friend, the gray-headed bank manager, when suddenly the Master of the Revels held up his hand in an authoritative manner. The babble of many voices died away.

"Gentlemen," said the Master, "I am delighted to inform you that Herr Katzkin, the celebrated German virtuoso, has unexpectedly dropped in. He has very kindly consented to give us a few selections."

The applause which followed was deafening, and the popular long-haired German was fairly hoisted to the platform by a dozen willing arms. His English was remarkable in its quality, but still he thought it necessary to make a little speech.

"Gentlemens," he said, flourishing his bow, "it is that I will you some music give. First, I will blay you Desdemona's dying song, "Willow, Willow, Willow" from Verdi's great masterpiece, "Othello." It is not often gespielt, aber it is wundervoll.'

I hardly heard the last words, I was too busy watching the Bank Manager. At the very first mention of "Willow" he changed countenance-his face became ashen, his jaw fell.

"Feel ill, old man?" I asked.

He recovered himself at the sound of my voice, and like one demented, leaped from his chair and rushed out of the room. When the concert was over a little group of us sought him out. Hidden in a snug corner of the smoking room we found the old man, leaning dreamily back in an arm chair, an untasted highball by his side, an extinguished cigar between his fingers.

"What is the matter?" we asked in chorus. "Are you 11-shall we send for a doctor?"

"Nothing, nothing," he muttered, "it's that air from 'Othello.' It's ten years since I heard it, and it goes ringing through my head still." Then he took a long drink, and became once more the jovial bon-vivant and good fellow we had known and loved for so long.

"Look here, boys, you must have thought me awfully rude to run away like that. Fact is, I couldn't help it. I have never told the story before, but I think, in justice to myself, I should let you have it. Don't laugh--it's not a fairy tale, but solemn, sober truth I'm going to give you. The drinks are on me. Just touch that button and I'll begin.

"It was in the Call that the advertisement caught my eye:

""TO RENT.-Picturesque mountain ranch in Sonoma County. Good threeroomed house, barn, etc. Hunting, fishing, shooting, lots of game. Magnificent scenery. Apply, Messrs. Takem & Skinnem, Montgomery street.'

"I laid down that advertisement with a gasp of longing; I had just been reading Stevenson's 'Silverado Squatters,' and the fever of rural Bohemia ran in my blood.

Here was my chance-why

not emulate the Silverados for one little fortnight? That was the limit of my holiday vacation, due in a few days, but you can put a great deal of life into a fortnight, and provided my feminine contingent proved willing, the thing was done.

"The feminine contingent fell in at once. Wife Mary reveled in the notion of romantic surroundings, while daughter Mamie said with a smile and a blush that it would be delightful if the wood-sawing did not prove too much for dear popper's back. If Charlie was near, nowCharlie had such splendid muscle.

"Charlie was my son-in-law elect, so it seemed desirable to utilize his muscle, and one fine day late in December we started, a merry party of four.

"There was nothing eventful about our

journey. A couple of days easy driving up the lovely Sonoma Valley, through vineyards and orchards, now shorn of their autumn glory, brought us to the foothills where our ranch was situated. "Our nearest neighbors, the Thompsons, who acted as caretakers for the deserted place, kept a hog ranch some three miles away. They seemed quiet, respectable people, and welcomed our arrival gladly, immediately contracting to supply us with eggs, butter, milk, chickens, all kinds of fresh food, at city prices.

"Still I thought I detected rather a peculiar smile on the man's face as he handed me the key. 'Hope you'll like the place,' he said. 'I'm afraid you'll find it a bit untidy-like-it's not been lived in for a year. Mind the turn in the road when you reach the mouth of the canyon-it's two hundred feet deep, an' the trail's slippery after the rain.'

"Now, though I was a stout, middleaged man, I had not altogether lost my old skill in driving. However, I must confess that road almost unnerved me. We crawled like a fly along the sides of precipices, looking right down into the rushing creek. We dashed over rickety plank bridges which trembled beneath the weight of the wagon. We shaved round dangerous curves, and several times nearly slid bodily off the muddy road. I gave a sigh of relief when it was all safely over and I drew rein before the gate of our mountain ranch.

"The place looked dilapidated enough, the fence was sadly out of repair, the gate had long since parted company with its hinges, and was kept in place by a piece of wire, the hogs from the adjoining ranch had played havoc with the garden, only a few fruit trees were left, standing gaunt and bare in the winter sunlight. Still the agent had not deceived me when he described the ranch as picturesque. It occupied a small level spot on the side of a precipitous hill, thickly wooded with great oaks. In the ravine below I could hear the rushing waters of the creek, and promised myself some rare fishing on the morrow. The neighborhood seemed to swarm with game. A band of mountain quail started

from the underbrush as we passed in, squirrels barked at us from the surrounding trees, and jack rabbits fled down the hill at our approach.

"The cottage, a small three-roomed affair, was tolerable enough. The exterior badly wanted a coat of paint, but the interior was warm and dry. The women were delighted with our new quarters, especially Mamie, who clapped her ands and exclaimed: 'Isn't it cute!'

"The house was certainly furnished, but in the funniest possible kind of way. Even my inexperienced eye could detect the traces of disorder everywhere visible. The place looked as if it had just been abandoned by some one in a great hurry. The kitchen, a fair-sized room, which also served as a living apartment, was filled with a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends. The table was littered with a heap of small packages of seed, balls of twine, needles, pins, cotton, and so on, all the things which a careful rancher's wife would naturally keep in her drawers and cupboards. In one corner was a collection of farming tools, loosely thrown down; in another a pile of old bottles and broken crockeryware. A passage leading from the kitchen took us into two small bedrooms. Here the same condition of affairs prevailed, the bed-clothes were all tumbled, old articles of clothing were scattered about, and a lot of cheap novels, evidently pulled down from a shelf overhead, were tossed on the floor. It was altogether a strange state of affairs, everything one could possibly require during a short stay in the country was there, yet somehow nothing seemed to be in its place. Even old Vixen, our sedate fox-terrier, who had followed us all the way up, seemed to realize that there was something wrong. She growled angrily, and sniffed uneasily from corner to corner. I thought it was rats, but still Vic is one of the quietest old ladies in the world, and is not accustomed to behave in such an undignified fashion.

"Looks as if some tramp had got in here and mussed things up,' I said, when I had taken in the state of affairs. 'Still, it's strange he did not steal everything.' "There was a fine array of pots and

pans in the kitchen, and my good lady, with housewifely delight, soon busied herself amongst them. Then she came to me with a puzzled look on her face.

"'Don't you notice anything peculiar, Tom?'

"We were all alone in the room, for Charlie had been presented with an axe and was now busy trying to chop the end off a fallen log. Mamie was helping him that is to say, she sat on the other end of the log and did the talking whilst he worked.

"'No,' I said, glancing round.

"Her keen feminine eyes had noted something which my superficial masculine observation had overlooked.

"Why, Tom, you remember Thomson told us the place had not been occupied for a year!'

"'Of course he did.'

"Well, then, it's strange there's not a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. And, look at those stewpans; they're as bright as new. Even the stove has been polished up.'

"'Oh, I suppose Mrs. Thomson came up and did some cleaning preparatory to our arrival. Very kind of her, I'm sure.'

"My wife shook her head. 'If she did, do you suppose she would have left things in such a state of disorder. Even the most slovenly servant couldn't have done worse!'

"Give it up,' I answered in despair. "But I must say it does look odd. However, don't say anything to the young people about it. We've got to see this thing through by ourselves.'

"We had brought plenty of provisions, and our first meal in our new house was a merry one. Charlie was delighted at the prospect of good shooting, and Mamie fairly bubbled over with merriment at her novel surroundings. We old people took things more sedately, for behind it all I had an undefinable feeling of dread, an intuitive perception that everything was not all right.

"The cottage had evidently been built with a view to winter comfort. There was a huge open fireplace as well as a cooking stove, and we soon had a bright fire of oak logs roaring up the open

chimney. We shoved all the loose things lying about back into the cupboards, and soon had the house fairly tenable.

"My wife and I occupied the larger of the two front rooms, Mamie the other, whilst Charlie had to be contented with a shake-down in the kitchen. In spite of the tumbler of hot Scotch I had taken just before retiring, I did not sleep well that night, but then, I never do in a strange place. Vic, spoilt dog as she was, positively refused to sleep on her rug. She persisted in getting on the bed, a thing she was never allowed to do at home. She shivered constantly, as if suffering from cold, and gave an ominous growl as she cuddled up closely to me. The house was perfectly still. I could hear no sound, yet it seemed to me that there was something moving about restlessly from room to room.

"Next morning I asked Charlie how he slept. 'Oh, first-class,' he replied, 'but several times I was awakened by a noise in the cellar. Sounded like some one chucking boxes about, or something of that kind; think a wild-cat must have got under the house. Let's have a look!'

"We had not noticed it before, but at the rear of the house there was a strong door, leading evidently to a cellar. The door was fastened by a stout padlock, and there was no way of opening it.

"Thomson must have forgotten to give me the key,' I remarked. 'It's no use forcing the door. I'll get him to open the place when he comes up.'

"Then, in the bustle of preparing breakfast and settling down amid our new surroundings, I straightway forgot all about the matter. The weather kept beautifully fine, but it was not too cold for an active out-of-door life. Charlie took his gun out daily and returned with phenomenal bags-quail and rabbit and squirrels, dished up in every conceivable way by my wife, who is a splendid cook, formed our diet. We were many miles from a game warden, so Charlie, in defiance of all game laws, returned one day with a fine buck, and we were never short of venison after that. Being a little too old and fat for mountain climbing, I contented myself with taking many a fine

salmon from the creek below. My wife found plenty to do around the house and garden, whilst Mamie fluttered aimlessly about, getting in everybody's way, and making herself generally amusing. Altogether we were as happy as possible, and I began to congratulate myself on my brilliant idea for a holiday vacation.

"I slept better after the first night, and Vic also seemed more contented, though she still insisted on sleeping on the bed. Only one thing worried us: do what we would, we could never manage to keep the loose articles we had found about the house stowed away in the cupboards. Every night something either fell or was taken out, and dropped on the floor. We would find in the morning packages of seeds scattered about the place, or it might be a bag of shot, or a paper of pins. Laughingly we accused Charlie of somnambulism, but he rejected the notion with scorn, and declared he had never slept better in his life. I locked the cupboards securely and took the keys to bed with me, but still the practice went on, until finally it ceased to alarm us. We would amuse ourselves at night by making bets as to the articles which would be found on the floor in the morning.

"Time sped rapidly in this happy way, and, what with the out-of-door life and lots of exercise I found myself getting into splendid condition, or, as you would say, fit as a ferule-but I don't like using that phrase now.

"I used to get up at dawn and go down to the creek, for that was the best time to catch the big salmon which swarmed there. Then I would come back with a hunter's appetite to a steaming breakfast. One morning my wife said to me, as she poured out the coffee: "Tom, dear, I think you are working just a little too hard. What is the use of your chopping all that wood in the morning? Let Charlie take a turn at it-he's younger than you are.'

"Charlie, who was always an obliging young man, cheerfully asserted his willingness to chop all the wood required in the household, and it was a pretty considerable quantity.

'But I never chop wood,' I protested; 'I haven't touched the axe since I came here.'

"For answer my wife took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen door. "Tom,' said she, as she pointed to a big heap of split firewood which lay just outside, 'do you mean to say you did not split all that lovely burning wood?'

"'No,' I asserted, "Charlie must have done it, and wishes modestly to conceal his good deeds.'

"But Charlie vigorously denied the imputation, and we were left to face the problem. A big heap of wood had been split each morning since we came there, and no one could be found to admit having done it.

"Perhaps,' I laughingly suggested, 'some tramp in need of exercise slipped in here and did the work.'

"My explanation served to carry off the thing as a joke, but I was not altogether satisfied in my own mind. Strange occurrences of this kind were getting altogether too common.

"One fine morning my wife, after breakfast, beckoned me into the garden. "Tom,' she said, with a mysterious air, 'I want to show you something funny.' 'Well, dear?'

66

"Do you see that old rosebush over there?'

"'Of course I do. I'm not getting blind just yet.'

"Well, look at the ground underneath.' "I thought her request rather a strange one, but like a good husband did as I was bid. I wondered no longer.

"For a space of about six feet long by two wide, just at the foot of the rose tree, the earth was swept scrupulously clean. Every dead leaf, every broken twig, every scrap of the miscellaneous rubbish which littered the garden, had been carefully removed, and piled in a little heap alongside. The ground was as bare and clean as if newly dug.

"I tried to explain the phenomenon. It must have been an eddy of the wind, I suggested vaguely, but my wife whispered in awe-stricken tones: "Tom, it looks horribly like a grave.'

"Then Thomson rode up, bearing holi

'Don't know, I'm sure,' replied the matter of fact Thomson. 'Place has never been opened to my knowledge since-" and he checked himself 'since the last tenant left.'

"A fit of curiosity seized me. 'Well, I'm going to have a look anyhow, if I have to break the door down.'

"Thomson protested against thus damaging the property, but in vain. I promised to pay for repairs, and seizing the axe made valiantly for the mysteriously sealed entrance. The whole family, in a subdued state of excitement, followed

me.

"A few blows sufficed to break the rusty padlock from its fastenings, and we entered, full of anticipation. The result was somewhat disappointing. The place was merely a small hole, dug out of the earth on one side of the house. There was nothing there save a heap of old boxes and such like rubbish. Mechanically I turned over the pile with my foot, just to see if any wild creature were hiding there.

"Hullo,' cried Mamie, holding her skirts tightly around her for fear of rats or mice, there's something in this box.'

"I turned out the contents with the axe handle, being somewhat afraid of snakes. Underneath a pile of shavings we found an ordinary card-board box, such as drapers use to pack their stock in. It was rotten with age and fell to pieces as we touched it.

"A fiddle,' cried Mamie, 'a real old violin. What a find!'

"It was truly a fiddle, but not such a very old one. It was a rough, unfinished affair, not yet varnished, and apparently made by an amateur. The wood was discolored with mildew, the strings looked sadly in need of tuning, but still the instrument was complete enough, and

no doubt might once have yielded toler able music.

"Mamie, as was her wont, enthused over this trifling discovery. May I have it, Mr. Thomson?' she cried. 'It will make just a lovely ornament for my room. I'll paint it with blue enamel and hang it on the wall. Won't the other girls be jealous!'

"Thomson smiled. 'Don't seem to me as if it belonged to anyone in particular, Miss. Guess you may as well have it as the next one.'

"So it was settled, and Mamie in triumph carried off her prize to the kitchen, where she hung it on a convenient nail over the fireplace, so that it might get a chance to dry, she said.

"The rest of the day was occupied in preparations for the morrow, which we intended should be the jolliest Christmas we ever spent. After supper we drew round the open hearth and toasted ourselves pleasantly before a great fire, watching the flickering play of light and shadow on the smoke-darkened walls. Purposely we had extinguished the lamps, for we loved to sit thus in the firelight, my wife and I chatting soberly, as became elderly people, whilst Mamie and Charlie billed and cooed after the immemorial fashion of lovers. Mamie was busy roasting chestnuts in the embers, which Charlie diligently ate.

"Suddenly the girl glanced upwards, and gave a little scream of dismay.

"Burnt your fingers again,' I laughed. 'Remember the fab

"No, no, that's not it,' she hurriedly interrupted. 'Look at the fiddle.'

"We looked, and our gaze was riveted. The fiddle hung in the shadow cast by the broad mantelshelf, so that, in ordinary circumstances, it would have been barely visible. But now it was faintly illumined with a bluish-white phosphorescent light. Every detail of the instrument was visible, the dark strings stood out clearly against the bright background.

Must be some kind of luminous fungus,' I commented, 'which shines in the dark.'

"But the explanation, which seemed