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 saying: "I say, just get down that book, 'Every Man his own Mahatma.' I think it's in that little bookcase by the window. That's it. Now, just turn to page 392, where it tells you how to unravel your elements when you've got 'em in a tangle. Thanks."

More suspense, and then a condensing nebula; and finally the form of Moozeby sitting on the mantelpiece. It was Moozeby this time, but with one strange—very strange—peculiarity; he had one black-and-tan ear like the terrier!

Mrs. Moozeby was dreadfully upset by that ear; and poor M., with a sigh of despair, offered to try again, but his wife put her foot down this once and for all, and absolutely forbade any more of the nonsense.

"We shall have you turning out next," she said angrily, speaking of him as if he were a blancmange, "with the door-knob for a nose, or something of that sort, which would show more! No, you must brush your hair down over that ear and make the best of it, and it serves you right!"

And we left poor Moozeby in a very despondent state, with his black-and-tan ear drooping, ruefully watching Mrs. M., who was employed in burning his collection of Theosophical pamphlets on the fire, while the terrier, who had already detected that ear, sat with one bright eye threateningly fixed upon it, making up his mind.