open, as if self-moved.  The footsteps entered the room; but no one was to be seen.  They passed slowly and audibly across it, tramp—­tramp—­tramp! but whatever made the sound was invisible.  Dolph rubbed his eyes, and stared about him; he could see to every part of the dimly-lighted chamber; all was vacant; yet still he heard those mysterious footsteps, solemnly walking about the chamber.  They ceased, and all was dead silence.  There was something more appalling in this invisible visitation, than there would have been in anything that addressed itself to the eyesight.  It was awfully vague and indefinite.  He felt his heart beat against his ribs; a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead; he lay for some time in a state of violent agitation; nothing, however, occurred to increase his alarm.  His light gradually burnt down into the socket, and he fell asleep.  When he awoke it was broad daylight; the sun was peering through the cracks of the window-shutters, and the birds were merrily singing about the house.  The bright, cheery day soon put to flight all the terrors of the preceding night.  Dolph laughed, or rather tried to laugh, at all that had passed, and endeavoured to persuade himself that it was a mere freak of the imagination, conjured up by the stories he had heard; but he was a little puzzled to find the door of his room locked on the inside, notwithstanding that he had positively seen it swing open as the footsteps had entered.  He returned to town in a state of considerable perplexity; but he determined to say nothing on the subject, until his doubts were either confirmed or removed by another night’s watching.  His silence was a grievous disappointment to the gossips who had gathered at the doctor’s mansion.  They had prepared their minds to hear direful tales; and they were almost in a rage at being assured that he had nothing to relate.

The next night, then, Dolph repeated his vigil.  He now entered the house with some trepidation.  He was particular in examining the fastenings of all the doors, and securing them well.  He locked the door of his chamber, and placed a chair against it; then, having despatched his supper, he threw himself on his mattress and endeavoured to sleep.  It was all in vain—­a thousand crowding fancies kept him waking.  The time slowly dragged on, as if minutes were spinning out themselves into hours.  As the night advanced, he grew more and more nervous; and he almost started from his couch, when he heard the mysterious footstep again on the staircase.  Up it came, as before, solemnly and slowly, tramp—­tramp—­tramp!  It approached along the passage; the door again swung open, as if there had been neither lock nor impediment, and a strange-looking figure stalked into the room.  It was an elderly man, large and robust, clothed in the old Flemish fashion.  He had on a kind of short cloak, with a garment under it, belted round the waist; trunk hose, with great bunches or bows at the knees; and a pair of russet boots, very large at