ordinary conversation of cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority of Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway travelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the London drawl.  No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way.  At eleven o’clock the family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out.  Some time after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside his room.  It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming nearer every moment.  He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at the time.  It was exactly one o’clock.  He was quite calm, and felt his pulse, which was not at all feverish.  The strange noise still continued, and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps.  He put on his slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened the door.  Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man of terrible aspect.  His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Otis, “I really must insist on your oiling those chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator.  It is said to be completely efficacious upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines.  I shall leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to supply you with more, should you require it.”  With these words the United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and, closing his door, retired to rest.

[Illustration:  “I really must insist on your oiling those chains”]

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor, he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a ghastly green light.  Just, however, as he reached the top of the great oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head!  There was evidently no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house became quite quiet.