THE GHOST OF LEMON LANE.
BY MAY CARLETON.
The house was haunted! You would not have thought so, perhaps, at first sight, for a prettier little cottage, nestling amongst sweet-briar and cinnamon roses, snowy white, with preterna turally green doors and blinds, and sparkling little lattice-windows, you could not wish to see. It stood within Squire Lemon’s grounds, down at the remote end of Squire Lemon’s long garden, and, of course, Squire Lemon was its owner.
Yes, the cottage in Lemon Lane was haunted. Half a dozen years ago, the squire’s gardener, who lived there, had come home in the small hours in a raging state of drink, and had killed his wife; and next morning, in a fit of impotent penitence, cut his own throat. They buried the tragic gardener and his wife out of sight, and the cottage in Lemon Lane was “to let.” But untold gold could not have induced the good people in that little town to pitch their tent amongst the golden willows and cinnamon roses. Whether it was the gardener, or whether it was his wife, or whether it were both, nobody could tell for certain; but the house was pronounced to be haunted.
Squire Lemon stood at his study-window, looking frowningly aslant a long vista of sunshine, and yellow willows, and flaming red roses, down at the offending cottage, gleaming like a toy-house of ivory amidst the bright green gloom. Not all the sparkling morning sunlight, not all that brilliant garden picture, could efface one of those ugly, wicked little wrinkles from the smoke-dried face of grim Squire Lemon.
“It’s a hundred and fifty dollars a year clean out of my pocket,” mused the squire, scowling at the haunted house. ‘Six years that cottage has been vacant, and six times one hundred and fifty is nine hundred dollars. Nine hundred dollars out of a man’s pocket, because a drunken brute comes home and kills his wife, and cuts; his throat for his own amusement.”
The squire broke off with a very sour face, for fluttering in and out amongst the trees came a girlish figure, slender and graceful as became its owner’s eighteen years. Very slowly and spiritlessly she walked, and very, very pale was the pretty face, upon which the jubilant summer sun shone.
“And there’s another bother,” burst out the choleric squire, regarding angrily his only child and heiress. “I've fed her, and clothed her, and bought her a piano, and everything her heart could desire- and what sort of a return does she make me? Why she goes and falls in love with a dandified, empty-headed, city counter-jumper! And she wants me to let her marry him, and spend my money for me! No, Miss Eleanor Lemon!"
At this moment a servant came up, and said,
“A lady, sir, at the door, asking to see you."
“A lady! Who is she? What does she want?"
“I don't know her, sir. It's about the haunt the cottage down the lane, I think. "
The squire opened his eyes. Was it a tenant at last?
“The cottage, eh? Show her in at once, Sam at once!"
Squire Lemon seated himself in his chair of authority, and the next moment Sam reappeared, ushering in the lady. A lady, tall and majestic, who moved with slow, stately dignity; who was robed in deepest, deepest mourning-crape and bombazine, trailing grandly, gloomily, after her; a widow's cap encircling a pale, handsome face gleaming behind a long, crape veil.
“I heard at the hotel, Mr. Lemon, " the lady said, in a melodious monotone, sinking into the proffered chair, "that you had a desirable cottage to rent. Now I am in search of a small house; I am a widow, and live quite alone, and I have called to know your terms. "
The squire gave a little gasp: he was so much taken by surprise.
“The terms are nothing; the cottage is very cheap," he said, as soon as he could speak. “Eight lovely little rooms, ma'am, and only one hundred and hundred and fifty dollars a year; beautiful surroundings, as you may see, in the way of garden-grounds; and water and gas on the premises. It's a dead bargain."
The lady arose and surveyed the white cottage with a critical eye.
“It's a pretty place," she said, “a very pretty place. But it has its drawback, Squire Lemon," turning to him with a charming smile. “I know all about the ghost!"
“Confound the ghost! I beg your pardon, ma'am, but the people are such—well, fools! The only ghosts are the wind, and the rats, and the trees, and the moonlight, and their imagi-
