A DOUBLE-BARRELLED GHOST. 321
Swearing at the manufacturers of such collapsible garden- chairs, I was struggling to rise when I perceived my rings of smoke comporting themselves strangely. They were widen- ing and curving and flowing into definite outlines, as though the finger of the wind were shaping them into a rough sketch of the human figure. Sprawling amid the ruins of my chair, I watched the nebulous contours grow clearer and clearer, till at last the agitation subsided, and a misty old gentleman, clad in vapour of an eighteenth-century cut, stood plainly revealed upon the sun-flecked grass.
"Good afternoon, John," said the old gentleman, cour- teously removing his cocked hat.
" Good afternoon ! " I gasped. " How do you know my name?"
" Because I have not forgotten my own," he replied. " I am John Halliwell, your great-grandfather. Don't you re- member me? "
A flood of light burst upon my brain. Of course ! I ought to have recognised him at once from the portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, just about to be sold by auction. The artist had gone to full length in painting him, and here he was complete, from his white wig, beautifully frizzled by the smoke, to his buckled shoes, from his knee-breeches to the frills at his wrists.
" Oh ! pray pardon my not having recognised you," I cried remorsefully ; " I have such a bad memory for faces. Won't you take a chair? "
"Sir, I have not sat down for a century and a half," he said simply. " Pray be seated yourself."
Thus reminded of my undignified position, I gathered myself up, and readjusting the complex apparatus, confided myself again to its canvas caresses. Then, grown conscious of my shirt-sleeves, I murmured, —
