A Book of Ghosts. S. (Sabine) Baring-Gould

quite new, for her feet. In a flower-glass stood a red camellia that was destined to adorn her hair, and on the dressing-table, in a morocco case, was a pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother.

      The maid did her hair, but the camellia, which was to be the only point of colour about her, except her rosy lips and flushed cheeks—that camellia was not to be put into her hair till the last minute.

      The maid offered to help her to dress.

      "No, thank you, Martha; I can do that perfectly well myself. I am accustomed to use my own hands, and I can take my own time about it."

      "But really, miss, I think you should allow me."

      "Indeed, indeed, no. There is plenty of time, and I shall go leisurely to work. When the carriage comes just tap at the door and tell me, and I will rejoin my aunt."

      When the maid was gone, Betty locked her door. She lighted the candles beside the cheval-glass, and looked at herself in the mirror and laughed. For the first time, with glad surprise and innocent pleasure, she realised how pretty she was. And pretty she was indeed, with her pleasant face, honest eyes, finely arched brows, and twinkling smile that produced dimples in her cheeks.

      "There is plenty of time," she said. "I shan't take a hundred years in dressing now that my hair is done."

      She yawned. A great heaviness had come over her.

      "I really think I shall have a nap first. I am dead sleepy now, and forty winks will set me up for the night."

      Then she laid herself upon the bed. A numbing, over-powering lethargy weighed on her, and almost at once she sank into a dreamless sleep. So unconscious was she that she did not hear Martha's tap at the door nor the roll of the carriage as it took her aunt away.

      She woke with a start. It was full day.

      For some moments she did not realise this fact, nor that she was still dressed in the gown in which she had lain down the previous evening.

      She rose in dismay. She had slept so soundly that she had missed the ball.

      She rang her bell and unlocked the door.

      "What, miss, up already?" asked the maid, coming in with a tray on which were tea and bread and butter.

      "Yes, Martha. Oh! what will aunt say? I have slept so long and like a log, and never went to the ball. Why did you not call me?"

      "Please, miss, you have forgotten. You went to the ball last night."

      "No; I did not. I overslept myself."

      The maid smiled. "If I may be so bold as to say so, I think, Miss Betty, you are dreaming still."

      "No; I did not go."

      The maid took up the satin dress. It was crumpled, the lace was a little torn, and the train showed unmistakable signs of having been drawn over a floor.

      She then held up the shoes. They had been worn, and well worn, as if danced in all night.

      "Look here, miss; here is your programme! Why, deary me! you must have had a lot of dancing. It is quite full."

      Betty looked at the programme with dazed eyes; then at the camellia. It had lost some of its petals, and these had not fallen on the toilet-cover. Where were they? What was the meaning of this?

      "Martha, bring me my hot water, and leave me alone."

      Betty was sorely perplexed. There were evidences that her dress had been worn. The pearl necklace was in the case, but not as she had left it—outside. She bathed her head in cold water. She racked her brain. She could not recall the smallest particular of the ball. She perused the programme. A light colour came into her cheek as she recognised the initials "C. F.," those of Captain Charles Fontanel, of whom of late she had seen a good deal. Other characters expressed nothing to her mind.

      "How very strange!" she said; "and I was lying on the bed in the dress I had on yesterday evening. I cannot explain it."

      Twenty minutes later, Betty went downstairs and entered the breakfast-room. Lady Lacy was there. She went up to her aunt and kissed her.

      "I am so sorry that I overslept myself," she said. "I was like one of the Seven Sleepers."

      "My dear, I should not have minded if you had not come down till midday. After a first ball you must be tired."

      "I meant—last night."

      "How, last night?"

      "I mean when I went to dress."

      "Oh, you were punctual enough. When I was ready you were already in the hall."

      The bewilderment of the girl grew apace.

      "I am sure," said her aunt, "you enjoyed yourself. But you gave the lion's share of the dances to Captain Fontanel. If this had been at Exeter, it would have caused talk; but here you are known only to a few; however, Lady Belgrove observed it."

      "I hope you are not very tired, auntie darling," said Betty, to change slightly the theme that perplexed her.

      "Nothing to speak of. I like to go to a ball; it recalls my old dancing days. But I thought you looked white and fagged all the evening. Perhaps it was excitement."

      As soon as breakfast was concluded, Betty escaped to her room. A fear was oppressing her. The only explanation of the mystery was that she had been to the dance in her sleep. She was a somnambulist. What had she said and done when unconscious? What a dreadful thing it would have been had she woke up in the middle of a dance! She must have dressed herself, gone to Lady Belgrove's, danced all night, returned, taken off her dress, put on her afternoon tea-gown, lain down and concluded her sleep—all in one long tract of unconsciousness.

      "By the way," said her aunt next day, "I have taken tickets for Carmen, at Her Majesty's. You would like to go?"

      "Oh, delighted, aunt. I know some of the music—of course, the Toreador song; but I have never heard the whole opera. It will be delightful."

      "And you are not too tired to go?"

      "No—ten thousand times, no—I shall love to see it."

      "What dress will you go in?"

      "I think my black, and put a rose in my hair."

      "That will do very well. The black becomes you. I think you could not do better."

      Betty was highly delighted. She had been to plays, never to a real opera.

      In the evening, dinner was early, unnecessarily early, and Betty knew that it would not take her long to dress, so she went into the little conservatory and seated herself there. The scent of the heliotropes was strong. Betty called them cherry-pie. She had got the libretto, and she looked it over; but as she looked, her eyes closed, and without being aware that she was going to sleep, in a moment she was completely unconscious.

      She woke, feeling stiff and cold.

      "Goodness!" said she, "I hope I am not late. Why—what is that light?"

      The glimmer of dawn shone in at the conservatory windows.

      Much astonished, she left it. The hall, the staircase were dark. She groped her way to her room, and switched on the electric light.

      Before her lay her black-and-white muslin dress on the bed; on the table were her white twelve-button gloves folded about her fan. She took them up, and below them, somewhat crumpled, lay the play-bill, scented.

      "How very unaccountable this is," she said; and removing the dress, seated herself on the bed and thought.

      "Why did they turn out the lights?" she asked herself, then sprang to her feet, switched off the electric current, and saw that actually the morning light was entering the room. She resumed her seat; put her hands to her brow.

      "It cannot—it cannot be that this dreadful thing has happened again."

      Presently