How different it looked in the early dawn!  The fog had risen and shining frost pearls hung in the bare twigs of the tall trees where the sparrows were already twittering their morning song.  There was no one to be seen.  The churchyard lay quiet and peaceful.  I stepped over the heaps of bones to where the heavy oaken coffin lay under a tree.  Cautiously I pushed the arm back into its interior, and hammered the rusty nails into their places again, just as the first rays of the pale November sun touched a gleam of light from the metal plate on the cover.—­Then the weight was lifted from my soul.

OTTO LARSSEN

THE MANUSCRIPT

Two gentlemen sat chatting together one evening.

Their daily business was to occupy themselves with literature.  At the present moment they were engaged in drinking whisky,—­an occupation both agreeable and useful,—­and in chatting about books, the theater, women and many other things.  Finally they came around to that inexhaustible subject for conversation, the mysterious life of the soul, the hidden things, the Unknown, that theme for which Shakespeare has given us an oft-quoted and oft-abused device, which one of them, Mr. X., now used to point his remarks.  Raising his glass, he looked at himself meditatively in a mirror opposite, and, in a good imitation of the manner of his favourite actor, he quoted: 

     “There are more things in heaven and earth than are
     dreamt of in thy philosophy, Horatio.”

Mr. Y. arranged a fresh glass for himself, and answered: 

“I believe it.  I believe also that it is given but to a few chosen ones to see these things.  It never fell to my lot, I know.  Fortunately for me, perhaps.  For,—­at least so it appears to me,—­these chosen ones appear on closer investigation to be individuals of an abnormal condition of brain.  As far as I personally am concerned, I know of nothing more strange than the usual logical and natural sequence of events on our globe.  I confess things do sometimes happen outside of this orderly sequence; but for the cold-blooded and thoughtful person the Strange, the apparently Inexplicable, usually turns out to be a sum of Chance, that Chance we will never be quite clever enough to fully take into our calculations.

“As an instance I would like to tell you the story of what happened several years back to a friend of mine, a young French writer.  He had a good, sincere mind, but he had also a strong leaning toward mysticism,—­something which was just then in danger of becoming as much of a fashion in France as it is here now.  The event of which I am about to tell you threw him into what was almost a delirium, which came near to robbing him of his normal intelligence, and therefore came near to robbing French readers of a few excellent books.

“This was the way it happened: 

“It was about ten years back, and I was spending the spring and summer in Paris.  I had a room with the family of a concierge on the left bank, rue de Vaugirard, near the Luxembourg Gardens.