IDA MALCOLM. A GHOST STORY, IN TWO PARTS. II. In the days of Cromwell, when England, under the banners of a 'commonweal,' suffered its noblest blood to gush forth like water into the base channels of plebean triumph, Bickley Manor stood. It boasted then of strong defence; its ivied walls, which now barely echo to the hoot of the passing owl, resounded then with the force of cannon shot, and sent for miles and miles around, a blast of that kind of music good soldiers love to hear. For days, this old Manor House withstood the bullets of the usurper, while the standard of the rightful king fluttered proudly in the breeze from the summit of its tottering tower. Sir Richard Malcolm was a good follower in the Stuart cause; a man who, having earned his spurs by more than twenty noble deeds, was not one to die without a struggle, nor to set aside his noble name, for all the threats in Christendom. It chanced, however, that reinforcements came, just at a time when they were least expected; the beseiged poured forth one volley of musquetry on the advancing line, and then, when the name of "king" rested on nearly every lip, and nearly every knee was bent to offer thanks to him, the portals rang with many an iron sound, and the halberdiers rushed in to claim. the rights of conquest. Sir Richard stood, firm as a lion on the threshold of his chamber, ready to die, and by his death, to give another drop of precious blood to the already noble sea which proved a reflection and disgrace to the habitable world, and Englishmen in particular, during the seventeenth century. A word, a blow, and all was lost! the beseigers swept through the doorway, over the body of one of England's bravest men. Lady Malcolm was at the far end of the room in which this tragedy was enacted, and, as she stood with her pale and lovely face overspread by a deathlike pallor, the gentle blood of the commander Tretton thrilled with compassion for her, and he ordered his men instantly to withdraw from those sacred precincts into the outer Court. The Hope of Malcolm lay sleeping in its little cot, its blue eyes were fast closed to all the miseries, for which they might have wept, while the mother prayed for the safety of her little child! It was a reprieve! and one, that might, to any one else, have proved a pardon, but it was not to be. In a few moments a soldier entered; he bore in his arms the spoils of war, his face was flushed from the effects of wine, while from his mouth sprang forth a curse upon the mother and her sleeping child. The curse was followed by a blow; the mother fell, and then, ere life had passed away, the innocent offspring of this loyal pair, was dashed through the window into the outer Court, where Tretton and his soldiers stood. At the end of the passage, and quite by itself, hung the picture I had come to see. My host pointed to it without speaking and I approached nearer for the purpose of inspecting it, as also to discover, if possible, the remarkable likeness it was said to bear to Ida. Judge of my surprise when, instead of finding as I was led to expect, a portrait of Lady Malcolm, I found a blank sheet of canvass in a tarnished frame !—I looked enquiringly towards my host, thinking that he perhaps could offer some explanation, when the green-baize door opened suddenly, and a draught of cold air rushed along the passage and extinguished the candle I held in my hand. I own that at this moment a cold shiver passed over me, and I was afraid to utter a single word. In a few seconds, a hand was placed on my shoulder and a voice whispered in my ear bidding me "follow in silence." I scarcely know why I moved away-perhaps because I was afraid to remain in the dark! I only know that my hand touched the robe of a woman; that the voice which spoke, was that of a woman; and that I imagined my guide was no other than Ida Malcolm. We passed through, it appeared to me, an endless suite of rooms, each one more hideous in its obscurity than the other, and none likely to end the journey which seemed to occupy so long a time. I was gradually regaining courage, and was about to interrogate my guide as to the object she had in view, when I was pushed, rather than led, into a narrow passage. Through a glass dome in the ceiling, shot a silver moonbeam, and my heart leapt with anticipation of the discovery I was about to make. To my surprise, my guide moved away, I heard her dress rustle as she hurried back in the direction we had come, I called her, but she answered not, and I deemed it folly to pursue any one seemingly so well acquainted with the windings and the intricacies of this ancient wing of the building. I stood still for a moment, thinking what to do, my eyes wandered from the wall to the light, and I soon discovered that the moonbean fell full on an object which rested against the wall-it was the picture of Lady Malcolm, which, for some unaccountable reason, had been placed in that extraordinary place, and under the full influence of the moonshine. My first impulse was to laugh, but some one in the distance spared me the trouble. That laugh proved to be Ida's! By-and-by I heard Mr. Malcolm's voice at the end of the passage, and I then discovered that I had been the victim of a practical joke. Ida and her father came up and hurried me away! her laugh was like music to my ears, so strange did it appear under the circumstances. I went to my room, thoroughly ashamed of myself, and for a time cured of my supernatural credibility. In the morning, I felt half inclined to absent myself from breakfast, but upon reflection I thought it better to treat the whole affair as a good joke. I went down therefore, as if nothing had happened and underwent a certain amount of goodnatured raillery apropos of the preceeding night's adventure. I was by no means satisfied with regard to the appearance of Ida Malcolm in the garden a few nights before, and I interrogated my host on the subject. "It was a hoax, my boy, from beginning to end. Ida is too fond of practical joking and, as I have often told her, it is neither proper nor becoming to a young lady in her position," exclaimed Mr. Malcolm," "now Ida" he said, addressing his daughter, "were you in the garden on the night in question ?" "No Papa, I am not quite foolish enough for that." "That is strange," I exclaimed, "for I saw some one very like you Miss Malcolm." "I can only account for that," she said, "by presuming that you have really seen the Bickley ghost." And I thought so, and think so to this day. I have no more to say; we are all cradled in belief of the supernatural; the mind of the sage, the apology of the fool, have been, from time immemorial, the subjects of hallucination— whether "in futuro" the veil will be raised, and the truth laid bare, is a matter for the Fates alone to judge, and Time to decide. TOM BOWLINE. EUROPEAN LIFE IN HONGKONG. V. The Gambling houses are seen under a somewhat different aspect at night. It will be worth while, therefore, to pay another visit to one. We will leave our chairs at the Club and walk down Queen's Road. It is past nine o'clock, the shops are all shut and there are very few people about. Chinese are not allowed to be in the streets after nine in the evening or before five in the morning, unless they have a pass from the Police. A few outside chairs and coolies licensed to ply for hire at night are prowling about looking for customers; every now and then three or four chairs containing jolly Jack Tars are carried swiftly by; occasionally we meet a group of respectable looking Chinese walking along, and perhaps a drunken soldier or sailor reels by us, roaring a roar that may be either a song, a speech, a pean of triumph, or a wail of despair. Now all is quiet and nearly dark, until we hear in the distance a grating sound of music, and see lights streaming across the road. We soon reach a row of grogshops and, peeping into one, see a number of sailors, gravely, soberly, seriously drunk, dancing, with swing-swong ponderosity, a mysterious kind of Quadrille to the whining music of a bad fiddle which |