.

MY FATHER'S MANUSCRIPT.
I am filled with awe of what I have to write.

The sun is shining golden above me; the sea lies blue beneath his gaze; the same world sends its growing things up to the sun, and its flying things into the air which I have breathed from my infancy; but I know the outspread splendour a passing show, and that at any moment it may, like the drop-scene of a stage, be lifted to reveal more wonderful things.
Shortly after my father's death, I was seated one morning in the library.

I had been, somewhat listlessly, regarding the portrait that hangs among the books, which I knew only as that of a distant ancestor, and wishing I could learn something of its original.

Then I had taken a book from the shelves and begun to read.
Glancing up from it, I saw coming toward me--not between me and the door, but between me and the portrait--a thin pale man in rusty black.
He looked sharp and eager, and had a notable nose, at once reminding me of a certain jug my sisters used to call Mr.Crow.
"Finding myself in your vicinity, Mr.Vane, I have given myself the pleasure of calling," he said, in a peculiar but not disagreeable voice.