Various were the exclamations of wonderment from the guests at the breakfast-table. They gazed with awe on the narrator, then at each other, then at the narrator again. Our artist had won the esteem of the whole club.
Breakfast being finished, our friends drew round the fire, and the landlord left the room, looking grave and shaking his head. McGuilp's strange adventure had furnished food for comment for two or three hours afterwards. The whole forenoon nothing was talked of but the ghost.
At length a lull occurred in the conversation, and someone recollected that it was Professor Cyanite's turn to tell a story. At that moment our host's pretty daughter, Helen, a blooming girl of sixteen, entered with the lunch.
Our artist was enraptured with the golden hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks of the maiden, after the swarthy beauties of Italy; but, above all, with her innocent, modest, and half-bashful manner.
"Well, Helen," said Mr. Oldstone, "has your father told you about the ghost?"
"Oh, yes, sir," replied the girl, her merry expression changing suddenly to a look of awe; "he did frighten me so; I am sure I shall never be able to sleep again in this house."
"This is the gentleman who saw the ghost, Helen," cried one of the other members, pointing to our artist.
The maiden turned and saw a fresh face in the club. Our artist was the youngest, by many years, of any of the other gentlemen present, besides which he was decidedly good looking. He gazed into the eyes of the girl till the poor child blushed crimson and looked down abashed.
"Ho! ho! Helen, my girl," said Mr. Crucible, one of the oldest members of the club, "you don't blush like that when you look at us old fogies—what is the matter, eh?"
A general laugh ensued, much to the confusion of poor Helen, and our artist himself felt not a little confused at having produced such an impression on the girl in the presence of so many others of his own sex.