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hours when I was awakened by an impatient jerk at the sheet.

"There, you're taking it all again," said a voice, which I immediately recognized. "Of all the nights in August, and there're thirty-one of 'em, I don't see why you should have chose this one to sleep in this bed."

"My dear madam," I protested, "it is not my desire to be here, I assure you; but the heat—"

"Never mind about the heat," she interrupted testily, "notwithstanding that, considering the circumstances, I must in sist upon having my part of the sheet."

"The circumstances?" I repeated.

"Yes, the circumstances. If there's one anniversary I can't abide more than another, 'tis the anniversary of my death—that is, of course, except the anniversary of my birth. 1 don't know which is the worst, and they must needs come on the same day, and that's now. Oh dear! I might as well not he dead, what with the bats and two anniversaries on the same day! I had the birthday part of it two hours ago. I was seventeen years old on the second round."

"On the second round?" I repeated vaguely.

"Yes, you begin at the beginning and get up to your death-age, and then go back and commence all over again. But you mustn't interrupt me. I'm just about to celebrate the anniversary of my death from the smallpox."

I sprang from the bed as though a bombshell had burst beside me. As soon as I could collect my wits I struck a match and lighted the candle. No trace of my ancestress was to be found anywhere, not even an impression on that side of the bed which she had so lately occupied.

I slept no more that night. The next day I bade farewell to Williamsburg.

A year after my return to the North I received a heart-broken letter from Miss Matilda. The Armitage mansion with its family portraits, silver, jewelry—everything, had been destroyed by fire. It was hard to decide which to pity most—the last leaf upon the genealogical tree, or the unresting dead hovering over the blackened ruins of their former haunts.

There is now, of course, no likelihood of my ever being called upon to take the name of Armitage and the consequent risks.

Postscript.—Miss Matilda Armitage died in Williamsburg, Virginia, July 26, 188–. The Armitage name in Virginia is now extinct, and there is no longer any reason for my withholding this narrative. I, therefore, offer it to the reading public, not that I expect it to gain credence, but because I regard the matter of which it treats as too curious to remain a secret.

THERE is an idea prevalent in the United States that the sentiment of the people of Canada is so essentially English, that no commercial advantages would induce them to sever the British connection and become citizens of a Continental Republic. Even some of the most advanced political economists of Canada, in their advocacy of free trade with the United States, are particular to emphasize their belief that commercial union would not imply political union—because they are afraid of being accused of disloyalty to the throne of Great Britain. It is not my intention to enter here into the consideration of the mutual commercial advantages to be derived from a unification of the two countries. But I