and nodded over her knitting, from which she occasionally drew a needle and scratched her frowsy head, yawning the while and rubbing her small, watery eyes.
A little girl was sleeping upon a stool by the stove. Several workmen in their shirt-sleeves sat at a table playing cards. When any of them trumped an ace, they rapped with their knuckles and the little one sighed in her sleep.
The gallant ghost could not suppress a sigh as he reflected how fine it would be if he were still living, and as landlord and husband could scold the stout woman, and send the little Lisa early to bed. But fate had decreed otherwise, and he descended from his lofty seat and flitted homeward through the deserted streets to the haunted house.
Arrived at the gateway he peeped in a moment through the window of the porter's room. There sat Wenzel Kospoth, still bending over his folio. The glow from the lamp silvered his gray head; but his small eyes were closed, so that it was uncertain whether he were napping, or sunk in deep thought. Johann Gruber shrugged his shoulders. He could not endure the valiant old man, because other people regarded him as a magician, and he calmly acquiesced; whereas Johann knew that this attributed power over the spirits of hell was clearly a swindle. His colleague, too, disliked the cobbler, and sometimes threatened to do him harm, indebted though they were to him for their unlighted quarters.
The night wanderer now sought the crevice in the old house-door through which he was accustomed to slip in. But to-night, finding an obstacle, he noticed, for the first, that he was still in the materialized condition in which he had been forced to show himself at the medium's command. Instantly he stripped the garment from his shoulders, like a paletot, saw it dissolve in thin air, and glided unimpeded through the door and across the court.
"Good evening, Herr Müller!" said he, in a whisper. "Have you turned in already? Much work to-day?"
Out of the calash in the corner came back a faint echo, which trembled as from inward vexation.
"How often must I tell you, stupid, to go to bed quietly and not disturb well-bred people in their first sleep? You smell of bad liquor again. Have the goodness to keep away from me and creep into your chest!"
"Oho!" snarled the other, approaching his irate companion and settling himself upon a shaft of the carriage. "The deuce take your fine manners! You are no better than I--Spirit is Spirit, and you are on the wrong track when you accuse me of drinking. You know very well we can no longer pour down a draught behind our cravats, for we have no cravats. No, Herr Müller, what you smell is the pure, soul fragrance. Your own is not exactly like violets, either. Why should it be, if it savors of the deeds done in your lifetime? You understand? Take care you don't go too far; for if it should come to blows--I have