My Library

told me in confidence that it was the very facsimile of the right hand of a girl whom he once knew in the Isle de Bourbon, and who had destroyed herself by poison for love of the very man who told me the story! This hand came from beneath the table and extended itself eight or ten inches over the edge at first. Then it gradually rose in the air, displaying a magnificent set of fingers, upon the middle joint of one of which appeared the semblance of a large and peculiarly-shaped brown mole, surrounded by three smaller ones, and it was by these marks that my friend pretended to recognize it. The hand was attached to about two-fifths of a fore-arm, completely covered with the semblance of a lace sleeve, terminating at the wrist in a jewelled band, and at the other extremity by a flaring and projecting ruffle. The hand, after a while, rose into the air, where it floated for two minutes. It then descended, seized hold of a small silver bell upon the mantel and rung it sharply all over the room; after which it replaced it, took hold of a pencil and wrote forty-seven words upon the ceiling of the lofty-vaulted apartment; threw down the pencil, patted each of our hands, and then gradually faded away in the air, just over the centre of the table. We rose after it had gone, placed a stand upon the table, a chair upon that, so as to reach the writing on the wall (which yet remained there), and found a short message to