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red at us at the top of his voice; but the handsome young lady (lid not favor us with even a glance. November, 31 It is late. Hours ago the bugles notified the boys that it was time to retire to their dens. I have been reading Thackeray's Lovell, the Widower, and as I sat alone in the silence of the middle night, the scenes depicted grew distinct and lifelike; the characters encompassed me about real living men and women; the drawing-rooms, dininghalls, parlors, opened out before me; theeets, walks, drives, were all visible, and I became a spectator instead of a reader. Suddenly a low, unearthly wail broke the stillness, and my hair stiffened somewhat at the roots, as the fancy struck me that I heard the voice of the defunct Mrs. Lovell. A moment's reflection, however, dispelled this disagreeable thought. Looking toward the corner of the cabin whence the ghostly sound emanated, I discovered a strange cat. My long-legged boots followed each other in quick succession toward