Suddenly the wind veered and the veil fell; all the sacred names so freely bandied about were those of “families” with mighty milk-records.

When we went on board and the good ship was slipping down The Solent, I made the acquaintance of these men and was regaled with more cow-talk than I had heard since I left Texas.

We saw the island of Portsea, where Dickens was born, and got a glimpse of the spires of Portsmouth as we passed; then came the Isle of Wight and the quaint town of Cowes.  I made a bright joke on the latter place as it was pointed out to me by my Jersey friend, but it went for naught.

A pleasant sail of eight hours and the towering cliffs of Guernsey came in sight.  Foam-dashed and spray-covered they rise right out of the sea at the south, to the height of two hundred seventy feet.  About them great flocks of sea-fowl hover, swirl and soar.  Wild, rugged and romantic is the scene.

The Isle of Guernsey is nine miles long and six wide.  Its principal town is Saint Peter Port, a place of about sixteen thousand inhabitants, where a full dozen hotel porters meet the incoming steamer and struggle for your baggage.

Hotels and boarding-houses here are numerous and good.  Guernsey is a favorite resort for invalids and those who desire to flee the busy world for a space.  In fact, the author of “Les Miserables” has made exile popular.

Emerging from my hotel at Saint Peter Port I was accosted by a small edition of Gavroche, all in tatters, who proposed showing me the way to Hauteville House for a penny.  I already knew the route, but accepted the offer on Gavroche’s promise to reveal to me a secret about the place.  The secret is this:  The house is haunted, and when the wind is east, and the setting moon shows only a narrow rim above the rocks, ghosts come and dance a solemn minuet on the glass roof above the study.

Had Gavroche ever seen them?  No, but he knew a boy who had.  Years and years—­ever so many years ago—­long before there were any steamboats, and when only a schooner came to Guernsey once a week, a woman was murdered in Hauteville House.  Her ghost came back with other ghosts and drove the folks away.  So the big house remained vacant—­save for the spooks, who paid no rent.

Then after a great, long time Victor Hugo came and lived in the house.  The ghosts did not bother him.  Faith! they had been keeping the place just a’ purpose for him.  He rented the house first, and liked it so well that he bought it—­got it at half-price on account of the ghosts.  Here, every Christmas, Victor Hugo gave a big dinner in the great oak hall to all the children in Guernsey:  hundreds of them—­all the way from babies that could barely creep, to “boys” with whiskers.  They were all fed on turkey, tarts, apples, oranges and figs; and when they went away, each was given a bag of candy to take home.

Climbing a narrow, crooked street we came to the great, dark, gloomy edifice situated at the top of a cliff.  The house was painted black by some strange whim of a former occupant.