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2 commended me a compete change of scene; but, instead of taking advantage of this, I asked for a companion at the Th itched House. The prescription I had begged for was vHttcn in the shape of a note to Ada Rivers imploring her to come to mo at once. “Do come now/’ I wrote ; “I have a mystery for you to explore. I will tell you about it when we meet.” Having su'd so much, I knew that I should not be disappointed. Ada Rivers was a tall, robust girl, with the whitest teeth, the purest complexion, and the clearest laugh I have ever met with in the world. To be near her made one feel healthier both in body and mind. She was one of those lively, fearless people, who love to meet a morbid hor ror face to face, and put it to rout. When I wrote to her, “Do come, for I am sick,” 1 was pretty sure she would obey the summons ; but when I added, “I have a mystery for you to explore,/ I was con vinced of her compliance beyond the possibility of a doubt, It wanted just one fortnight of Christ mas Day when Ada arrived at the Thatched House. For some little time beforehand. I had busied myself so pleas antly in making preparations, that I had almost forgotten the weeping lady, and had not heard the footstep for two nights. And, when, on the evening of her ar rival, Ada stepped into the haunted dining room, in her trim, flowing robe of crim son cashmere, with her dark hair bound closely round her comely head, and her bright eyes clear with that frank, unwa vering light of theirs, I felt as if her wholesome presence had banished dread at once, and that ghosts could surely never harbor in the same house with her free step and genial laugh. “What is the matter with you ?” said Ada, putting her hands on my shoulders, and, looking in my face. “You look like a changeling, you little white thing! When shall I get leave to explore your mystery ?” “To-night,” I whispered, and, looking round me quickly, shuddered. We were standing on the hearth before the blazing tire, on the very spot where that awful footstep would pass and repass through the long, dark, unhappy hours after our lights had been extinguished, and our heads laid upon our pillows. Ada laughed at me and called me a little goose ; but I could see that she was wild with curiosity, and eager for bedtime to arrive. 1 had arranged that we should both occupy my room, in order that, if there was anything to be heard, Ada might hear it, “And now what is all this that i have to learn ?” said she, after our door had been fastened for the night, and we sat looking at one another with our dressing-gowns upon our shoul ders. As I had expected, a long ringing laugh greeted the recital of my doleful tale. “My dear Lucy !” cried Ada, “my poor sick little moped Lucy, you surely don’t mean to say that you believe in such vulgar things as ghosts ?” “But 1 cannot help ,it,” I said. “I have heaiel the footstep no less than seven times, and the proof of it is that I am ill. If you were to sleep alone in this room every night tor a month, you would get sick, tqp.” “Not a hit of it!” said Ada, stoutly ; and she sprang up and walked about the chamber. “To think of getting discon tented with this pretty room, this exqui l sitc little nest ! No, I engage to sleep here every night for a month—alone, if you please—and, at the end of that time, [ shall not only be still in perfect health, my unromantic self, but I promise to have cured you. you little, absurd, imaginative thing ! And now let us go to bed with out another word on the subject. ‘Talk ing it over/ in cases of this kind, always decs a vast amount of mischief.” Ada always meant what she said. In V half an hour we were both in bed, with out a further word being spoken on the matter So strengthened and reassured was Iby her strong, happy presence, that, wearied out by the excitement of the day, 1 was quickly fast asleep. It was early next morning when I wakened again, and the red, frosty sun was rising above the trees. When 1 opened my eyes, the first object they met was Ada, sitting in the window, her forehead against the pane, and her hands locked in !c; ;ap. bhe was very pale, and her brows were knit in perplexed thought, t had never seen her look so strangely before. A swif thought struck me. I started up, and <■ ied, “0 Ada ! forgive me for g sing to deep so soon. / know i/ou have heard it. She unknit her brows, rose from her seat, an came and sat down on the bed beside nu . “I cannot deny it,” she said gravely ; “7 have heard it. Now tell me, Lucy, docs your aunt know anything of all this?” “I am not sure/’ I said; “I canuot be, because lam afraid to ask her. I rather think that she has heard some of the sto ries, and is anxiously trying to hide them from me, little thinking of what I have suffered here. She has been very dull lately, and repines constantly about the purchase of the house/’ “Well/’ said Ada, “we must tell her nothing till we have sifted this matter to the bottom.” “Why, what are you going to do ?” I asked, beginning to tremble. “Nothing very dreadful, little coward !” she said, laughing; “only to follow the ghost, if it passes our door to-night ; I want to see what stuff it is made of. If it be a genuine spirit, it is time the Thatched House were vacated for its more complete accommodation. If it be flesh and blood, it is time the trick were found out.” I gazed at Ada with feelings of min gled reverence and admiration. It was in vain that I tried to dissuade her from her wild purpose. She bade me hold my tongue, get up and dress, and think no more about ghosts till bed time. I tried to be obedient; and all that day we kept strict silence on the dreadful subject, while our tongues and hands, and (seem ingly), our heads were kept busily occu pied in helping to carry out Aunt Feath erstone’s thousand-and-one pleasant ar rangements for the coming Christmas festivities. During the morning, it happened that I often caught Ada with her eyes fixed keenly on Aunt Featherstone’sface, especially when once or twice the dear old lady sighed profoundly, and the shadow of an unaccountable cloud settled down upon her troubled brows. Ada pondered deeply in the intervals of our conversation, though her merry comment and apt suggestion were always ready as usual when occasion seemed to cal 1 for them, I noticed, also, that she made excuses to explore rooms and passages, and found means to observe and exchange words with the servants. Ada’s bright eyes were unusually wide open that day. For me, I hung about her like a mute, and dreaded the coming of the night, Bed time arrived too quickly; and when we were' shut in together in our room, X implored Ada earnestly to give up the wild idea she had spoken of in the morning, and to lock fast the door, and let us try to go to sleep. Such praying, however, was useless. Ada had resolved upon a certain thing to do. and tliis being the case, Ada was the girl to do it We said our prayers, w r e set the door ajar, we extinguished our light, and we went to bed. An hour we lay awake, and heard nothing to alarm us. Another silent hour went past, and still the sleeping house was undisturbed. I had begun to hope that the night was going to pass by without accident, and had just commenced to doze a little and to wander into a contused dream, when a sudden squeezing of my hand which lay in Ada’s, startled me quickly into con sciousness. I opened my eyes ; Ada was sitting erect in the bed, with her face set for ward, listening, and her eyes fastened on the door. Half smothered with fear, I raised myself upoh my elbow and listen ed, too. Yes, 0 horror ! there it was— the soft, heavy, unshod footstep going down the corridor outside the door, it paused at the top of the staircase, and be gan slowly descending to the bottom. “Ada !” I whispered, with a gasp. Her hand was damp with fear, and my face was drenched in a cold dew. “In God’s name!” she sighed, with a long-drawn breath; and then she crept softly from the bed, threw on her dressing-gown, and went swiftly away out .of the already open door. What I suffered in the next few minutes I could never describe, it I spent the remainder of my life in en deavoring to do so. I remember an interval of stupid horror; while lean ing on my elbow in the bed, I gazed with a fearful, fascinated stare at the half-open door beside me. Then, through the silence of the night, there came a cry. It seemed to come struggling up thiough the flooring from the dining-room underneath. It sounded wild, suppressed, smothered, and was quickly hushed away into stillness again; but a horrible still ness, broken by fitful, confused murmurs. Unable to endure the suspense any longer, I sprang out of bed, rushed down the stairs, and found myself standing in the gray darkness of the winter’s night, with rattling teeth, at the door of the haunted dining room. “Ada! Ada !” 1 sobbed out, in my shivering terror, and thrust my hand against the heavy panel. The door opened with me, I staggered in, and saw a stout, white figure sitting bolt up right in an arm-chair, and Ada standing quivering in convulsions oi laughter by its side. I fell forward on the floor ; but MSBII ©I mi W!l. before I fainted quite, I heard a merry voice ringing through the darkness. “O Lucy! your Aunt Featherstone is th) ghost!” When I recovered my senses, I was lying in bed, with Ada and my aunt both watching by my side. The poor dear old lady had so brooded over the ghost-stories of the house, and so unselfishly denied herself the relief of talking them over with me, that, pressing heavily on her thoughts, they had unsettled her mind in sleep. Constantly ruminating on the terror of that ghostly walk, she had un consciously risen night after night, and most cleverly accomplished it herself. Comparing dates, I found that she had learned tfeo story of the spirit only a few days before the night on which I had first been terrified by the footstep. The news of Aunt Featherstone’s esca pade flow quickly through the house. It caused so many laughs, that the genuine ghosts soon fell into ill repute. The legend of the weeping lady’s rambles be came divested of its dignity, and grew, therefore, to be quite harmless. Ada and I laughed over our adventure every night during the rest of her stay, and entered upon our Christmas festivities with right good-will. I have never forgotten to be grateful to Ada for that good service which she rendered me ; and as for Aunt Featherstone, I must own that she never again said one word in disparagement of the Thatched House. ANER’S RETURN. CHAPTER I. IN THE DESERT. I was a child—my heart full of suffer ing and sorrow, full of confusion and fear, and I knew not the cause. My Mother led mo by the hand. We were hastily ascending an eminence. Before us lay an interminable plain ; behind us arose a mountain-chain reach ing to the skies, and overshadowed by a dark storm-cloud. Dazzling flashes of lightning shot from this cloud like flaming swords of Cherubim, and the thunder rolled incessantly like the angry voice of God. I looked up at the countenance of my mother. It was pale with fright, and furrowed with consuming care ; the per spiration was rolling in heavy drops from her forehead, as it was also from mine. I felt hungry, and my tongue was parched with thirst. I complained of this to her; thereupon, she burrowed in the sand with her hands until she reached water, but when 1 greedily sipped it from my palm, for want of a cup, I found that it was bit ter, and almost insupportable. Then among thistles and thorns she sought for roots, and gave me all she found to ap pease my hunger. Again wo hurried on under the burning sun, which sent its scorching rays perpendicularly down upon our devoted heads, Evening came The death-breathing wilderness before us, illuminated by the setting sun, was awful to behold ; dis jointed rocks, and leafless stunted trees, cast their lengthening shadows over the plain, and, in the crimson twilight, ap peared to move on the clearly-defined horizon like gigantic phantoms. Behind us the threatening clouds still lowered, and the flashes of lightning glared brighter in the approaching darkness. My mother, surrounded on all sides with terrors, shrouded her face and accel erated her steps. Oh, how her sobs pierced my heart, how my feet burned with pain, and my breath came short and heavy! Finally, when night had completely closed around us, and the friendly stars were peeping down affectionately at us, she sank exhausted to the ground, clasped me in her arms, and sobbed convulsively: “Oh, my child, my child, what have I done !” And, while she bedded my weary head on her lap, I heard her conversing beseechingly with those stars above. I could not understand what she said, hut 1 noticed how she often looked lip with longing and wonder at a constellation which represented the form of a cross. I trembled in the chill morning air. A gray mist had veiled the mountains ; I stood there solitary and deserted. How terrible soever the sight of quickening flashes of lightning may have been, this perfect solitude was still more oppressive. My mother lay prostrate on her coun tenance in the position ot a suppliant, facing the East. “Mother, mother,” 1 cried, “It is time that wc begin our journey; let us search for roots, for lam nearly famished with hunger! As she did not move I approached her more closely, knelt down at her side and began trying to awaken her by prayers and caresses ; a terrible presentment ap palled my heart, and almost rendered me speechless and lifeless. I raised her head from the ground ; her half-kneeling form fell at my feet, her face, ashy pale as the ground upon which L stood, the brilliant light of her eyes extinguished, her lips and hands icy cold. W ifh trembling anxiety I sought to warm her by rubbing and inhaling my breath between, her closed lips. I called for assistance. No answer, not even an echo, returned— she was no more ! There she lay in her beauty, and quiet, peaceful rest, the furrows of care on her forehead smoothed over, and her counte nance lovely as I had never before seen that of a human creature. An expres sion of longing desire had remained in her lifeless eyes ; around her lips still lingered a quiet, resigned grief; and thus I found myself the only living creature in this endless desert. “Why can I not follow thee,” I cried, as my grief dissolved itself in tears. I cast myself upon the ground and sought to disengage the manacles of my soul, in order to search for the spirit of my mother. I must have lain thus for a long time. When I arose again the same dark gray mist precluded my vision of surrounding objects, and I noticed in the countenance of my mother evident marks of corrup tion. Then I dug her a grave with my hands, and performed towards her the last sad duty of a child. Devoid of thought, I sat in mutedespair at her fresh little mound. I could form no plan for the future ; wherever I might turn, I was helpless and deserted ; there was no distant land mark that I could have reached, even with difficulty ; I could hope for no accident to interfere in changing my lot. If I ever thought of going farther on my journey, I could not separate myself from the grave which hid within it all that made life desirable to me. I wished to die ; and yet, when hunger with its all but fatal tooth began to gnaw at my entrails, I shuddered, and shrank back from death appalled. It was then that the Tyrant of the Desert came to me—a gigantic, hateful man. Deserted as I was before, I still felt even more so now in his presence. “Boy,” said he “what brings you into my dominions? Would you like to go into my service ? Come! I will make you one of the strong ones of this desert, whom nothing can intimidate!” I followed him without a word ; why, indeed, should I perish here ? While we walked along, I thought of the profusion of roots and herbs that I would gather for myself ; “and,” said I, “who knows but what I may be able to help myself some day ? What treasures will 1 not discover, what hidden powers of Nature will 1 not subject to my control in order to change i his desert into a paradise ? 1 also, one day, will be tall and strong as this Tyrant, and be far less repulsive. If there is a dominion to conquer in thjs desert, I will not rule through fear alone, but in comparison with such will appear like a God.” Thus I whispered to my self, until I was verily astonished at the thoughts that passed in quick succession through my soul. It is a mystery to me now, how I could follow the Tyrant with such incredi ble speed, for, when I looked back, mist, mountain, and clouds, had disappeared from the horizon, and only the lightnings still flashed afar off, like the twilight co ruscations of a distant storm. Wc travelled on till midnight. Then my guide halted suddenly, and told me to look in the distance. “What do you sec opposite, yonder ?” I looked, There, where the midnight sky, umrelieved by a single star, mingled with the landscape, something glittered in a beautiful, parti-colored iridescence. I could not distinguish the various forms; but with the aid of my excited fancy, I imagined to see romantic places, the walls of which glistened in the light of the precious stones wherewith they were built. Countless flags streamed from the bold defiant towers, while the interior seemed flooded with light, and translu cent forms appeared to float through the halls in the very exuberance of their bliss, without touching the floors. A wall surrounded the city of my fancy, and I listened, and it seemed that I heard the harmonious sound of countless harps mingled with the melody of many a powerful choir. “Oh, master,” I exclaimed, under the impulse of my curiosity, and at the same time falling upon my knees before the Tyrant, “do conduct me thither quickly.” With a scornful smile that made me shudder, he answered : “Much as 1 wish it, 1 cannot grant your desire at present; there is a law in my kingdom over which I have no con trol, which forbids it; you must first, for a while, graze my flocks ; noon as destiny tells me it is time, I will introduce you into my castle. Then, with me, you will defy the lightning and laugh the thunder to scorn. But go, now, and take care of my flocks; keep them together faith fully, defend them from beasts ts prey, and learn from these how to be cunning and expert in battle ; but never approach nearer what you have seen now, for a certain death would overtake you the mo- meat you would dare to overstep limits. * I will call you when the time comes.” I now followed the Hocks of my mas ter, kept them together faithfully, bat tled with lions and dragons, and learned of them cunning and adroitness. My pleasures were hut few. In the sweat of my brow I ate, as formerly, my scanty diet of roots, and dug in the sand ot the desert for unpalatable water. No mat ter how far I went, everywhere I found the same indications of a cursed soil— thistles and thorns. From time to time the Tyrant paid me a visit; but he came not to relieve, only to abuse, and strike me. «: a* ’■*’ Now some wolf had torn a lamb, then a lion had devoured an ox, and I was punished for it all. I trembled as often as I saw him approach; the time of my probation began to seem interminable. Onee I had again come so near the for bidden limits that I could see the glim mering of that magic light as before. Tired of life, and from sheer despair, I ventured to press forward, even at the risk of overstepping the fatal boundary, which I could not see. Woe is me! How my fancy had deceived me! I could now clearly distinguish the supposed palaces as glowing rocks, rent asunder in all directions; the floating forms were living flames, surging out of the deep, the walls and watchmen were nothing but the rough, broken crevices of a burning crater; the sound of harps I found to be the suppressed roaring of a tremendous tire, burning at a great depth, and the voices resembled those of men who were weeping and lamenting. Shrinking with horror, I hastened away and sought to forget what I had seen—endeavored to deceive myself, from fear of the dark despair which must follow the last departing vestige of my hopes ; but this scene remained indelibly im pressed upon my mind. “Is it possible,” 1 often asked myself, “that my master could be a murderer? Ho is a liar, and why not also a murderer? Will he precipitate me also into that burn ing pit, after I have served him ?” While I was thus cay and night forever hunted down by this thought, and ever anxious to keep it at bay, I began to ne glect my flocks, and went about like one dreaming. The presence of the Tyrant became insupportable; I could see the stains of blood on his hands, and murder flash from his eye ; his abusive words and blows I counted as nothing—his sight was a greater torture to me.than any other lie could have invented, short of death itself. Nor did it escape him, that I knew of his plans, and without concealing his dreadful intention any longer, he began to play with my feelings as the tiger plays with the lamb before he devours it. The picture of that desert is still vivid in my memory. I cannot describe it, for where nothing presents itself to the eye save the same endless uniformity, there even language exhausts its descrip tive powers in the one word—“desert.” No mountain, no hill, no green forest, no deep blue sea, to give life and grace to the landscapes, like an eye on the face of the earth; no gushing spring, not even a dried and cracked-up river-bed interrupts the endless plain. You search the hori zon which bounds your vision round about with inexorable rigor, and you find nothing, save here and there a stunted and leafless tree, set there as a landmark of the dominion of Death. You look up ward to the firmament: not a cloudlet is to be seen ; nothing but a glaring, insup portable light is diffused, like a glowing flame, through the trembling air; no shady spot offers you a welcome and protects you fom the scorching rays of the sun. All is open ; not an obstacle presents itself to your hurrying steps, aud yet there is no goal, no place of refuge so nigh that your waning strength were suf ficient to reach it. Such were my sur roundings in the desert. - ——■ If. —lt is said that a tradesman in an Ohio city appends to his advertisement : “ Ministers of the Gospel supplied with goods at cost, if they agree to mention the fact to their congregation.” A Bad Appetite.—“ I have lost my appetite,” said a gigantic Irish gentle man, and an eminent performer on the trencher , to Mark Supple. “ I hope,” said Supple, “ no poor man has found it, for it would ruin him in a week.” A grateful lowa undertaker writes to his friend : “If ever you want a coffin call on me. I shall only be too happy to bury yourself or family at cost.” The Tennessee Blue Ridge Road.— Nineteen miles on the distance from Knox ville to Maryville, have been opened and is in operation, The iunds on hand, to gether with the State aid of ten thou sand dollars per mile, are sufficient to com plete the line to the Tennessee river—and tfiis it is believed will be accomplished by 1 the beginning of next year.