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DE JONES ENGAGES TO WRITE A PANTOMIME.-UNABLE TO MAKE A SELEC

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THE DEMON OF

66 THE PALE SPIRIT OF PANDEMONIA."

HE WRITES AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL PIECE, OPENING WITH
THE DEPTHS," AND FINISHING WITH

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AND THE MILES OF GORGEOUS SCENERY PAINTED, REHEARSAL COMES.

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IT DID NOT AT FIRST APPEAR AS IF THESE EMINENT COMEDIANS COULD BE

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LICKED INTO SHAPE BY CHRISTMAS AS THE 66 KNOWING CORPS OF NOBODIES;"

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BUT THE PUBLIC PRONOUNCE THE PANTOMIME A SUCCESS, AND THE AUTHOR

BOWS HIS ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

MY CHRISTMAS MYSTERY

BY WILLIAM SAWYER

For years I had spent Christmas with the Yarnolds, at their place down in Lincolnshire. Such a habit had this become that I never thought of Christmas except in association with the old Manor-house they lived in, and the wintry aspect of the pleasant scenery surrounding it. The understanding was that I should not wait for an invitation; but in the December of the year of which I am going to speak-a year not very remote-I did receive a letter from my old friends, couched in such warm, cordial terms that I could not have refused to accede to their wishes whatever other arrangements I might have contemplated.

A special day was named for my going down, and I was advised to take the train leaving London at five in the afternoon, so that the carriage might meet me at the station when the train came in, and take me and my luggage on to the Manor-house. To this I assented in my letter acknowledging the invitation, and so was not only pledged to spend the holidays at a particular place, but also to start on a given day, at a fixed hour.

These arrangements subsequently became important, because, had they not been entered into, I might not have gone to the Manor-house that year, I certainly should not have started on the day agreed upon, for on the morning of that day a very unpleasant circumstance happened. The morning's post brought me a letter from a stranger, of rather a startling nature. It was in a woman's handwriting, and signed Martha Rathgrave. The letter com

menced in fiercely-indignant and upbraiding terms, and it charged me with cowardice and villany. Then the tone changed to one of piteous appeal and entreaty. It is not necessary that I should set down the exact terms of the letter here; enough that, as I gathered, the writer was a frantic mother, whose daughter had been tempted from her home by some designing scoundrel, and who, distracted between indignation and misery, besought in hysterical and incoherent terms that as far as possible the injury might be repaired by the restoration of the misguided Agnes (that was the name given) to her home and friends.

The shock of such an epistle may be imagined. My astonishment at the receipt of it was unbounded. That it was intended for me there could be no mistake.

My name appeared in full on the envelope, with my address-Hare-court, Templeand my name was repeated at the bottom of the fourth page of the sheet of note-paper. Yet I swear I had never heard the name of Rathgrave before; and as to being a party to the abduction of the unfortunate Agnes, the charge was simply ludicrous.

Martha Rathgrave wrote from Chertsey. Had the day been at my own disposal I should certainly have started off at once in search of the lady, with a view to clearing up the mystery. But there was my packing, and I had fifty little matters to see about before the hour at which it was inevitable that I should catch my specified train. There was nothing for it but to write a letter,

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