On the conclusion of Mr. Crucible's narrative that gentleman was highly complimented on his tale by each member of the club in turn, especially by Mr. Oldstone. Our worthy host, owing to a strong potation he had imbibed before the commencement of the recital, more than once manifested symptoms of dropping into the arms of Morpheus, but was prevented from doing so each time by the opportune administration of sundry pinches of snuff from Mr. Oldstone's snuff-box.

If there was one thing this gentleman never forgave, it was a man going to sleep in the middle of a good story; he, therefore, as soon as the narrator had finished, felt it his solemn duty to remonstrate with our host severely upon his want of good breeding, to which the worthy man replied in a humble apology to all the company. As for his daughter Helen, she was attention itself throughout, and with the exception of Mr. Oldstone, was the loudest in praise of Mr. Crucible's recital.

"Well, Helen," said one of the members, "what do you think of the last story?"

"Oh, I am delighted with it," exclaimed the girl in ecstasy. "How I wish it had happened to me! I should so like to have a vision of that sort."

"Would you my dear?" said Mr. Crucible, "then I hope that if ever you see the Paradise I saw that you may remain there, for there you belong. You are too good for this earth."

"Now then, Crucible, none of your nonsense," said Mr. Oldstone. "Is that the way you talk to young ladies? I'm surprised at you. Look how you have made the poor girl blush."

"Don't be jealous, old boy," retorted the last narrator, "but give us another story. This is your turn."

"Yes, yes!" cried several voices at once. "Mr. Oldstone for a story! Hear, hear!"

"Really, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "it is so soon after the last, and as it is now getting somewhat late, I would fain put off my story for another time, and spend the evening between this and bedtime in some other way. Suppose we all fill our glasses. Perhaps someone may recollect a song."

"Agreed!" cried all the guests at once, "but who's to be the songster?"

"Can't you favour us, Helen?" asked Mr. Parnassus.

Helen declared that she could not sing, that she did not know any songs.

"Come, come, Helen, that's all nonsense," said the doctor, "I've heard your voice before now warbling away when you thought no one was listening to you."

"Ay, ay," said our host, "you are right, sir, she can sing when she likes as pretty a little song as ever you'd wish to hear, though I say it, that shouldn't."

"Come, Helen, don't be shy, sing away my girl," said Hardcase.

"Let us make a bargain, Helen," said McGuilp. "If you will sing a song, I will. There, you cannot refuse."

The girl's face brightened up as she stole a glance at our artist, and thus urged, began in a clear and sweet voice the following ditty:—

The Nightingale.

"Thank you, Helen, thank you; very well sung," said several voices at once.

"It is a fanciful and mournful ditty," said Parnassus, "but the tune is good."

"It is, indeed, somewhat melancholy," said McGuilp. "Have you no other, Helen?"

"I did but bargain for one," said the girl, smiling.

"True," said McGuilp, "and now you want to hear one from me, eh?"

"Precisely so," said Mr. Oldstone. "Keep him to his word, Helen. Don't let him shirk off."

"Now, Mr. McGuilp," said several voices at once, "we are all waiting."

"Well, gentlemen," began the painter, "if you will permit me to retire——"

"Retire!—Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Oldstone, Crucible, and others simultaneously. "Why you never mean to back out after having——"

"No, gentlemen, nothing of the sort, I assure you," said our artist, "I was only going to ask leave of the company to retire a moment to my chamber to bring down an article indispensable to the song I am about to sing."

"I believe he is going to sing in costume," said Mr. Blackdeed, "and that he is going in search of some 'property.'"

"No, nor that either," said the painter. "The song I shall sing to you this evening, gentlemen, is an ode that I composed myself to a skull which I found among some ancient ruins in Rome, and out of which I have made a drinking cup. As this is a drinking song, in which the cup is often alluded to, it will be necessary that the goblet itself be present."

"By all means," said several members.

"Let us see the precious relic," said the antiquary. "These things are quite in my line."

"And mine too," said the doctor.

Our artist left the apartment and returned with the relic, which he placed in the centre of the table for all to admire.

"There, Helen," said he, "that cup was once a man's head, who laughed, sang, and told stories, too, I've no doubt, like the best of us."

"And you use it to drink out of!" exclaimed the girl, in extreme disgust. "What a horrible idea."

Mr. Oldstone put on his spectacles and bent over the table attentively to examine it. Dr. Bleedem took it up, tapped it, looked at it all over, and declared that it was different in form to the skulls of the present day, observing that it was evidently of great antiquity, as the enamel had worn away. The bone, he said, was of great thickness.

The object of general curiosity was handed round the table from one to the other. At length Mr. Blackdeed took it up, and striking into a Hamlet-like attitude, quoted at full length the well-known passage:

"'Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,' etc., etc."

Applause followed the quotation.

"The song! the song!" cried others, impatiently.

"Composed by himself; mark that, gentlemen," said Mr. Parnassus. "A brother poet! Hear, hear!"

The company then drew themselves eagerly round the table, while our artist filled the human goblet to the brim, and after taking a sip from it, stood up, and holding it aloft, sang in a clear rich voice the following words:—

Lines to a Skull.

At the end of our artist's song he was unanimously cheered by the members of the club, and highly complimented upon his poetical skill, especially by Mr. Parnassus, who voted that he should be crowned with laurel. Mr. Oldstone eagerly seconded the proposal, but McGuilp modestly declined the honour. However, our worthy host, Jack Hearty, was sent out once more in the snow to gather laurel for the brow of the new poet laureate, in spite of our artist's modest protestations. He returned shortly afterwards with a branch of laurel, off which he first shook the snow, and then deposited upon the table. Mr. Oldstone quickly converted it into a wreath, and decreed it should be placed upon the songster's head by the fair hands of the pretty Helen. The decree was greeted with cheers, and Helen, blushing deeply and smiling, placed it on the head of the newly-discovered poet, our artist receiving it on bended knee amid the cheering of the club. McGuilp having risen from his knees, took his seat again at the table by the side of our host's pretty daughter, then rising to his feet and raising the skull aloft, he proposed the following toast in these words:—

"Gentlemen, I propose the health of the 'Wonder Club,' and that of our worthy host and his fair daughter, our guest, to be drunk by every member present solemnly and devoutly from this goblet."

More cheering, during which McGuilp took a sip at the funereal chalice, and then passed it on to his neighbour, who did the same, each member in his turn sipping and nodding round to the rest.

When the skull had been the round of the table, it was then passed on to our host, who hoped that the company would excuse him, but that his lips had never yet been contaminated by dead men's bones, and he hoped they never would be.

Persuasions and remonstrances from the members were alike vain, for neither our host nor his daughter could be persuaded to touch the sacrilegious relic.

In order not to give offence to the company, our host proclaimed his willingness to drink the toast out of a clean glass. This was at length agreed to, and the worthy man rose, and in a short bluff speech, thanked the company present for having drunk his health and that of his daughter. A clapping of hands followed our host's speech, and then Mr. Crucible, being the eldest member, returned thanks on the part of the club.

At that moment the hooting of an owl was heard outside. Helen turned pale, and instinctively drew nearer to our artist.

"Why, Helen my girl!" cried the doctor, "how pale you are. What are you frightened at?"

"Do you not hear?" said the girl. "It is the cry of the owl; they say it is a sign of death in the house."

"Come, Helen," said Hardcase, "you must not be superstitious; those things are all nonsense."

"Oh, no, I can assure you——" began the girl, when Mr. Oldstone broke in.

"I say, Mr. Poet Laureate, look how your fair companion trembles at your side. Cannot you think of some lay that might cheer her spirits and dispel her fears? Just try."

"Well," answered he of the laurel crown, "talking about owls, I once kept a pet owl myself, that I captured one night in a nook under the arches of the Colosseum. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear it——"

"Oh, by all means," promptly answered Oldstone.

"In that case, Jack," said McGuilp, addressing our host, "you will oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of accompaniment."

Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument.

"Ah, now we shall hear some music," said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes glistened in anticipation.

Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of prelude and began the following ditty.

Ode to an Owl.

Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist's, and the health of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of hands and rattling of glasses ensued. Glasses were then refilled, and after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber.