“Yes, the second door.  Good-night.  Good-night.”

The two men walked off together; but in a minute afterwards they had returned and were knocking tremulously at the closed door.

“O, what has happened?” chorused the ladies in woeful tune, seeing a certain wildness in the face that confronted them.

“We don’t know!” answered the others in as fearful a key, and related how they had found the door of their room ajar, and a bright light streaming into the corridor.  They did not stop to ponder this fact, but, with the heedlessness of their sex, pushed the door wide open, when they saw seated before the mirror a bewildering figure, with disheveled locks wandering down the back, and in dishabille expressive of being quite at home there, which turned upon them a pair of pale blue eyes, under a forehead remarkable for the straggling fringe of hair that covered it.  They professed to have remained transfixed at the sight, and to have noted a like dismay on the visage before the glass, ere they summoned strength to fly.  These facts Colonel Ellison gave at the command of his wife, with many protests and insincere delays amidst which the curiosity of his hearers alone prevented them from rending him in pieces.

“And what do you suppose it was?” demanded his wife, with forced calmness, when he had at last made an end of the story and his abominable hypoocisies.

“Well, I think it was a mermaid.”

“A mermaid!” said his wife, scornfully.  “How do you know?”

“It had a comb in its hand, for one thing; and besides, my dear, I hope I know a mermaid when I see it.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Ellison, “it was no mermaid, it was a mistake; and I’m going to see about it.  Will you go with me, Richard?”

“No money could induce me!  If it’s a mistake, it isn’t proper for me to go; if it’s a mermaid, it’s dangerous.”

“O you coward!” said the intrepid little woman to a hero of all the fights on Sherman’s march to the sea; and presently they heard her attack the mysterious enemy with a lady-like courage, claiming the invaded chamber.  The foe replied with like civility, saying the clerk had given her that room with the understanding that another lady was to be put there with her, and she had left the door unlocked to admit her.  The watchers with the sick man next door appeared and confirmed this speech, a feeble voice from the bedclothes swore to it.

“Of course,” added the invader, “if I’d known ’ow it really was, I never would lave listened to such a thing, never.  And there isn’t another ’ole in the louse to lay me ’ead,” she concluded.

“Then it’s the clerk’s fault,” said Mrs. Ellison, glad to retreat unharmed; and she made her husband ring for the guilty wretch, a pale, quiet young Frenchman, whom the united party, sallying into the corridor, began to upbraid in one breath, the lady in dishabille vanishing as often as she remembered it, and reappearing whenever some strong point of argument or denunciation occurred to her.