Stay, what have we here? Excuse me, gentlemen, while I break the seal. Ha! from my old friend Rustcoin. You remember him, gentlemen—my brother antiquary, formerly a member of our club. He writes from Rome:

"'My dear Friend,—I dare say you are surprised to hear from me again, after my long silence. The fact is that I had put off writing to you, having some time ago formed a resolution of returning to England, when I hoped to surprise you by suddenly appearing unexpectedly in time for the tenth anniversary of the inauguration of our club. Certain affairs, however, have prevented me from being present myself in the flesh, but I beg to introduce to your notice my young friend, Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, an artist who has for some time past been prosecuting his studies here in Rome. He is a young man of talent and genius, possessing a great fund of stories of the marvellous and supernatural order, such as your club particularly prides itself on. He is quite one of our sort, and you would be doing me a great favour to introduce him to the rest of the members. If he could arrive in time for your grand saturnalia, I should be doubly pleased.—Your old friend,

"'Charles Rustcoin.'"

"Well, gentlemen," said the president, "what do you say to that? Shall the neophyte be admitted? You see, he is not a commercial traveller, nor a business man, but an artist; one of those restless strivers after the ideal. A traveller, too—a man full of stories, like one of us. What do you say—shall he be admitted?"

The guests gave an unanimous consent, and the next moment our host ushered the stranger into the club-room. All eyes were directed towards the stranger. He was a young man, bordering on thirty, about the middle height, who, contrary to the custom of the period, wore his own hair, which at that time was considered extremely vulgar. He wore a slouch hat instead of the usual three-cornered shape, and an Italian cloak thrown over the left shoulder.

He doffed his hat with dignity and courtesy as he entered the apartment, and after shaking the snow from his cloak (for it had been snowing hard without that night, being in December), he handed cloak and hat to the landlord and accepted the offer of a chair that Mr. Oldstone had placed for him near the fire.

"Here! mine host," shouted Mr. Oldstone, "bring another log, and see that you make this gentleman comfortable to-night, for I see without asking him any questions that he is one of our set."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord, who was just leaving the room. "Never fear, sir, I'll see to the gentleman's wants, and my old woman will warm the bed, for it's a nasty night to be out in. My blessed eyes, how it snows! The gentleman must have had pressing business with you, sir, to bring him out here such a night as this."

"No, my good host," replied the artist; "nothing more than a desire to be present at the tenth anniversary of the club that I have heard so much about."

The host looked astonished, and the guests felt flattered. The landlord's respect for the members of the club was augmented considerably.

"Well, well; to think of that, now," he muttered to himself. "To think that this gentleman should trouble himself to come from who knows how far off, just to be present at the tenth anniversary of our club, and on such a night as this, too."

"By the by, Mr. Hearty," said the new comer to the landlord: "I believe that's your name, is it not?"

"The same, sir; Jack Hearty, at your service, sir."

"Well, then, Jack Hearty, I have just come from foreign parts, where I have left an old customer of yours; one Mr. Rustcoin, a great friend of Mr. Oldstone's. Do you recollect him?"

"Recollect him!" exclaimed the landlord. "Ay, indeed, sir, do I; a pleasanter gentleman over his bottle of port or over his bowl of punch hasn't crossed my threshold since he left it. Many's the good yarn we would have together. I hope you left him very well, sir?"

"In excellent health, thank you, Jack," said the stranger. "He desired to be remembered to you."

"Thank you, sir," said the host.

"Yes; those slippers will do," said the new guest.

"Draw near to the table, my friend," said Mr. Oldstone, "for I must introduce you to the other members and guests here to-night."

"My friends," said the chairman, "this gentleman is Mr. Vandyke McGuilp, an artist from Rome, great friend of my old chum Rustcoin, whom most of you knew. Mr. McGuilp, this gentleman on my right is Mr. Hardcase, the lawyer, who will be the first to relate a story to-night. On his right is Dr. Bleedem, one of our celebrated physicians; next to him is Mr. Cyanite, professor of geology, and then comes Mr. Blackdeed, one of our eminent tragedians; next to him is Mr. Parnassus, a young poet of great promise; after him is Mr. Crucible, analytical chemist, one of the oldest members of our club; next to him, as guest to-night, is Captain Toughyarn, commander of Her Majesty's good ship the Dreadnought; then, next door neighbour to yourself is Mr. Jollytoast, celebrated low comedian."

The new visitor bowed to each guest at the table with urbanity, and the guests returned the salute cordially.

"Well, gentlemen," began the president, "what do you say to a bumper to the health of our new guest?"

"Hear, hear!" cried the guests, unanimously.

Each filled up his glass from the punch-bowl, and our artist's health was drunk with cheers, to which he responded in a short and modest speech. (Applause.)

"And now, Mr. Hardcase," said the chairman, after the formalities were gone through, "I think it was arranged that you should tell the first story. I hope you have one ready. I am anxious for my young friend to hear a specimen of our far-famed recitals. In this club," said Mr. Oldstone, addressing the artist, "we always esteem those stories the highest that are true, and especially if they are facts coming under the experience of the relater. What sort of story may we expect from you to-night, Mr. Hardcase?"

"The story I intended to start the club with to-night is one that I myself took part in in my younger days, and which, although I never related to any of the club before, I have been upon the point of relating a hundred times, when I have been invariably interrupted by someone else who had some other tale to relate. The story I have in store for you this evening, gentlemen, I propose to entitle 'The Phantom Flea.'"

"Ha, Bravo!" laughed the guests. "The Phantom Flea! Ha! ha! ha!"

"I assure you, gentlemen," said the lawyer, gravely, "that the narrative I am about to relate is not one to provoke mirth. It is of a solemn character, I can promise you. No one felt less inclined to laugh than I did when I was reluctantly compelled to take part in this tragedy. Though by no means a timid man, I, nevertheless, experienced a sort of cold shiver all down my back when——"

"Exactly so," said the doctor.

"And each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine," quoted Mr. Blackdeed, the tragedian.

"Belay that," roared Captain Toughyarn, from the depths of his stentorian lungs, "and make room on board for the 'Phantom Flea.'"

"Bedad, and sure I feel myself itching all over alriddy," broke in Mr. Jollytoast, assuming an Irish brogue, and scratching himself.

"Order, order! Chair, chair!" called out other guests.

"Silence! gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, with authority, thumping on the table; "the story is just about to commence."

"The performance is just a-goin' to begin," broke in the incorrigible little comedian, assuming the air of a showman. "Valk up, valk up, ladies and