The Worthington advance., 1904-05-13
A GHOST STORY.
by CY WARMAN.

y some passing reference to the
meteoric rise of J. Spencer Atwood
from law to literature-had set that
prosperous young author thinking on
the not very remote yesterday OF his
life.
He might have hailed hanson; In
deed, he could we'll afford a carriage
and pair of his own, but this night he
preferred to walk home.
In a narrow lane just off the Strand
he found himself at the street door OF
a dingy brick building. Coming out
of his revery, he laughed noiseless
little laugh, and stood for a moment
looking up at window which, for
years, had been his one opening to
the world. How many cigars had he
smoked, how many air castles had he
builded with one elbow on the ledge
oil that lonely lookout!
While, as matter Of fact, he had
not foreseen this fame which was come
to him, he had, in some vague way.
felt it and had experienced no great
surprise at its coming.
1t was pleasant after years of alb
sence from the little lane. to stand
there in the midnight silence and look
up at the window where he had
dreamed some of the rosiest dreams
of his life.
A year ago he lived there.
Yesterday he lunched with the lord
chief justice.
To-day he dined with Gladstone.
Tomorrow he would sail for Amer
ica He was stealing quietly away.
Tor he hated noise and notoriety. He
was going to visit and to rest.
''Good-by, dear old stepstone. good
by" he quoted and turned away.
AS he walked slowly to his luxu
rious apartments Atwood began to ask
himself why he had come back to the
old place at midnight and alone. Was
it Mr.. Gladstone's reference to the old
days? Or Mr.. Gladstone's old port?
Or was he losing himself in his work?
Anyway he was glad that his stout
limbs had carried him back that he
might take leave of his old bachelor
home before mis- departure for Amer
lea.
As he walked away with elevated
chin his foot struck a stone. He
paused and looked down. He had
stumbled over the slab that covered
Goldsmith's grave.
What a narrow swath l shall be
cutting hundred years hence!' said
Atwood, hrrrying on.
Sycamore, always attractive. was
never more SO than now. Touhey.
the old gardener, was arranging the
rustic seats under the great trees
where the robins were rioting when
carriage swung in at the lower gate
and rolled leisurely along the graveled
driveway arched over by dropping
bows Of ancient forest trees.
Atwood was charmed with the place.
He had come to Canada expecting to
find only new crude things and was
agreeably surprised.
He saw, too, that the welcome ac-
corded him was genuine. The hostess,
Mrs Deering, was sister to his mother.
Gweet soul, who had gone from him
when he was but boy.
He admired her sons. sturdy young
fellows, just merging into manhood
and taking their places in the work
of the world. He was charmed by his
beautiful cousin. Helen, and greatly
amused and entertained by his maiden
aunt, Phoebe, who seemed ever to be
in the act Of side-stepping some sud-
den calamity. or shying at an imagin-
ary menace
Atwood was not only clever, but
handsome as we'll, and from the day
of his arrival the staid old country
seat took on holiday airs. Almost
Immediately kilograms began to pour
in from leading publishers, followed
by letters inviting the visiting author
to contribute to the magazines, while
special writer's and artists from the
big dailies began to break trail from
the big towns to the northern shrine.
At the end of week all roads
seemed to lead to Sycamore.
To be sure, Atwood knew his COM
ing would make some noise, but he
had not expected it would be as loud
as this. The space writer and the
kodaker had established peaceful
blockade of Sycamore.
If he showed his head some one took
a shot at him. One persistent picture
maker, having stolen into the grounds
by night hid under a. big birch and
actually photographed the author in
the swimming pool, taking a morning
plunge.
1t was probably this crowning au-
dacity more than anything else that
caused Atwood to accept an assignment
to do a short story in the vein orig
mated, developed and made famous by
him, for the foremost magazine, in
America. The price fixed by the pub
Usher was fabulous and in the event of
the author finishing the story in a fort
night there was to. be an honorarium
which, if it had come to him in the
form of retainer when he was a
struggling barrister, would have taken
his breath.
@ His aunt, by this time quite ready