‘Oh, don’t, Roger, don’t! I think Aunt Hannah must be dead.’
MY GHOST OF A CHANCE.
‘TRULY, a most fitting place for the Starvation Act,’ said the Author, as he laid a fresh supply of stationery on the table, ‘and a whole week to do it in, unless the story pans out well, which of course it won’t; I don’t suppose there’s a ghost of a chance of that.’
‘Here I am!’
‘Oh, there you are! yes, to be sure, so you are. And how do you do? I hope you will excuse my saying it, but aren’t you an uncommonly small ghost?’
‘Yes, I am slim; but I’ve seen smaller chances, and you know I am all the one you have got.’
‘Why, yes, as William has it, “A poor thing, but mine own.” Allow me to help you up on the table; there, how is that? Do you think you could sit on that cuff-box and rest your feet on the pen-wiper? I am afraid the table is rather bare and cold, and you don’t look very well. Is that comfortable?’