Beadle's Dime Novels No. 14 — page 15: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A MIDNIGHT GHOST. 18 stream girdled the valley with a belt of silver; he could hear its drowsy plash where it descended a little flowery slope. Pennon was in one of his poetical moods. Whether the sweet face he had seen leaning over the well, bathed in the rosy light of sunset, or the peculiar beauty of the place and hour had most to do in inducing it, can not be said—probably both had their share in leading him on to dangerous dreams of fancy and sentiment. “This will never do,” he murmured, as a clock in the room beneath struck eleven. “If I rise at four in the morning to make my sketch, I must be to bed betimes,” He had been scribbling what may have been rhymes upon a scrap of paper, by the suggestive light of the moon, for the last half hour. This he thrust into his pocket, and resigned his seat by the window for repose upon the inviting, quaint- looking bed. Just as he was sinking from conscious thought into slumber, the sound of the clock, striking the midnight hour, fell faintly upon his ear. At the same moment he became aware, as by some mystic influence, of the presence of some one in the chamber. He was wide awake in an instant; and turning his head he saw what, if his conscience had not been clear and his soul composed, would have frightened him. An old lady stood near his bed. He could not see her face distinctly, but it looked very pale, though not severe. Her hair was puffed and powdered in the ancient style. A broad bar of moonlight lay across her dress, and he could plainly see that it was of rich brocade, cut goreing, and plaited into a belt upon which shone a handsome gold buckle in which he de- tected the glitter of jewels. As he gazed at her she spoke. Her voice was hollow, but not unmusical. It had a mournful cadence as of a yoice burdened with too great a knowledge of sorrow. “Unhappy man! who art thou that thou shouldst. come here to trouble the innocent? Was it destiny that led thee to the well at that fatal moment, to blight the fortunes of the fairest of the Pertys? Be merciful, and go, from here before destiny has its consummation, But that can not be; fate is. immutable—immutable—immutable !” Her voice arose, not loud but shrill, like the shrieking of a comiclsooks.conn"