He sat alone in a gloomy library listening to the wind that roared
in the chimney. Around him novels and story-books were strewn
thickly; in his lap he held one with its pages freshly cut, and
turned the leaves wearily until his eyes rested upon a portrait in
its frontispiece. And as the wind howled the more fiercely, and
the darkness without fell blacker, a strange and fateful likeness
to that portrait appeared above his chair and leaned upon his
shoulder. The Haunted Man gazed at the portrait and sighed. The
figure gazed at the portrait and sighed too.
"Here again?" said the Haunted Man.
"Here again," it repeated in a low voice.
"Another novel?"
"Another novel."
"The old story?"
"The old story."
"I see a child," said the Haunted Man, gazing from the pages of the
book into the fire,--"a most unnatural child, a model infant. It
is prematurely old and philosophic. It dies in poverty to slow
music. It dies surrounded by luxury to slow music. It dies with
an accompaniment of golden water and rattling carts to slow music.
Previous to its decease it makes a will; it repeats the Lord's
Prayer, it kisses the 'boofer lady.' That child--"
"Is mine," said the phantom.
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