Bram Stoker

, what a wealth of sor­row in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Some of the “New Wo­men” writers will some day start an idea that men and wo­men should be al­lowed to see each other asleep be­fore pro­pos­ing or ac­cept­ing. But I sup­pose the New Wo­man won’t con­des­cend in fu­ture to ac­cept; she will do the pro­pos­ing her­self. And a nice job she will make of it, too! There’s some con­sol­a­tion in that.

I have been more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a won­der­ful ma­chine, but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the an­guish of your heart. It was like a soul cry­ing out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be use­ful. I have copied out the words on my type­writer, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as I did.”

Good night, every­body.

It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in their troughs the shal­lows of the shore were al­most vis­ible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rush­ing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt, “she must fetch up some­where, if it was only in hell.”

It was no won­der that the coast­guard was sur­prised, or even awed, for not of­ten can such a sight have been seen. The man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. Between the in­ner hand and the wood was a cru­ci­fix, the set of beads on which it was fastened be­ing around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the bind­ing cords. The poor fel­low may have been seated at one time, but the flap­ping and buf­feting of the sails had worked through the rud­der of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. Ac­cur­ate note was made of the state of things, and a doc­tor—Sur­geon J. M. Caffyn, of 33, East El­liot Place—who came im­me­di­ately after me, de­clared, after mak­ing ex­am­in­a­tion, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. In his pocket was a bottle, care­fully corked, empty save for a little roll of pa­per, which proved to be the ad­dendum to the log. The coast­guard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fasten­ing the knots with his teeth.

A good deal of in­terest was abroad con­cern­ing the dog which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the mem­bers of the SPCA, which is very strong in Whitby, have tried to be­friend the an­imal. To the gen­eral dis­ap­point­ment, how­ever, it was not to be found; it seems to have dis­ap­peared en­tirely from the town. It may be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still hid­ing in ter­ror. There are some who look with dread on such a pos­sib­il­ity, lest later on it should in it­self be­come a danger, for it is evid­ently a fierce brute. Early this morn­ing a large dog, a half-bred mastiff be­long­ing to a coal mer­chant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the road­way op­pos­ite to its mas­ter’s yard. It had been fight­ing, and mani­festly had had a sav­age op­pon­ent, for its throat was torn away, and its belly was slit open as if with a sav­age claw.