temper. "Confound you!" I involuntarily burst out, "what do you mean by that idiotic titter? Open the door." Dead silence. Perfect unbroken silence, and the darkness seemed to wrap round me and envelope me in a thick fog. There was an oppression, a weight in the atmosphere, and I felt an indescribable something that seemed to make it an impossibility either to speak or move. Yet my senses seemed at the same time strained to an unnatural degree of expectation, I felt as if my hearing, for example, was become unnaturally acute; and yet, God knows, there was nothing to hear. Utter complete silence,

silence indeed that "could be felt."

With a strong effort I raised myself from the wall against which I had been leaning, and determined to make my way back to my sofa. Instantly I felt I had regained power over my arms, and I made a dash at the door. Quite in vain. Again my hands trembled and fell powerless to my side, and again that aggravating laugh was heard, as if mocking my puny efforts. Restraining my anger, I got up a laugh myself not to be out of the fashion, but I could not help knowing that it sounded forced and strange. "How charmingly hospitable you are!" I exclaimed, in French.

I

Really your affection for my company is quite touching, what a pity I can't reciprocate it.-Oh!" I thought involuntarily as the jibing titter again sounded close to my ear, "if I had but a light." The thought had hardly crossed my mind before I felt a curious conviction that there was a light in the room I had not long since left. By some irresistible impulse I felt myself attracted thither. turned round. Why, I could see a light shining through the doorway from where I stood— there was no doubt about that. I strided rapidly down the hall, and rushed into the room. No wonder I had seen a light, for an immense wood fire burned brightly on the hearth. I could hardly believe my senses. Where had the great pile of wood come from? How was it I had heard no signs of fire-kindling through the open door? It was certainly very strange. Decidedly confortable, though, all the same; for it made the dusty old room look wonderfully cheery, so I felt quite grateful for the attention, and mentally revoked all the abuse I had levelled at my invisible companions.

Drawing my chair again in front of the fire, I sat for some time enjoying the warmth and gazing on the blazing logs; then I tried the old piano, a wonderful instrument frightfully out of tune, that would have made Thalberg shiver; and finally stretched myself on the vast sofa, which protested against my weight

by many internal groans. Turning my face from the glare of the fire, I lay for some time in a dreamy reverie, till a slight stir made me involuntarily turn my head. What was that? A living form or a shapeless mass, that the leaping flickering flames showed me in the arm-chair opposite ? Certainly there was something there, a greyish thing, huddled up rather back in the shadow of the chimneypiece. Stay, it moves, a head with the long dishevelled dark hair of a woman emerges gradually from under the grey wrapping. "Was this the nymph who laughed in the hall, and noiselessly lighted the fire, I wonder?" thought I to myself, as I watched the silent surging of the drapery. "I think I ought to thank her for the fire at all events." So with a preliminary hem to attract the attention of my Phyllis, I began a polite speech. Rapidly and noiselessly, as I spoke, the contents of the chair glided shapelessly out of sight, melted gradually and imperceptibly away, dissolving before my stupefied gaze into nothingness. There stood the empty armchair, the firelight playing on its faded chintz cover. I could hardly believe my eyes.

Could

it have been a dream? A titter seemed to come from under the sofa. I snatched one of the burning logs from the hearth and peered underneath. Of course there was nothing there except dust, of that there was any amount. Surprised and bewildered I stood for a moment log in hand. "There's not much chance of finding anyone, I suppose," I thought to myself; "but at any rate I'll search the house." So, taking a flaming stick in each hand to light me as torches on my way, I set out on my travels.

First, I explored the nest of rooms opposite. They were all perfectly empty except the kitchen, where I found my old Rosinante, who had apparently betaken himself there in the vain hope that a kitchen might furnish food, and now looked more woe-begone and out of sorts than ever, from his disappointment. Upstairs I tramped, looked into every room, curiously examined the turned-up bedstead in the small room, and came to the conclusion that it was a decidedly disreputable old relic; discovered an unlocked wall press, which, however, contained nothing but a horribly damp mouldy smell, and returned to my fire as wise as I set

I lay there I felt a consciousness creeping over me that there was something coming stealthily behind my back. Involuntarily I turned my head. Close to me, the soft brown-bearded chin leaning on the back of the sofa, was a man's head. I felt his breath on my cheek as I turned my face, and his strange sad grey eyes seemed to look me through and through. I started up and faced him-he was gone. Gone. Utterly vanished. Where had he gone to? Ah, that was the mystery; unless he had sank down through the floor, which seemed as firm as strong boards could make it.

"Well," I thought to myself, "certainly this is a house of odd inmates. If the fellow had only told me his story before he disappeared in that absurd way-" and, rousing up the fire, which was beginning to get low, I half expected to see him back again when I had completed a scientific arrangement of the logs. But there was nothing. I went over to the window. The night was dark and cloudy, and the wind sighed a plaintive lament now and then. I tried to open the sash, but I found that it had been nailed down, so, as it was but stupid work staring out at the elements, I sauntered presently back to my sofa, my hands in my pockets, determined to woo old Morpheus as the last resource of ennui.

As

"If it were only morning," I thought, "I would make another trial at that confounded hall door." "Ah, you will never leave this house," slowly whispered a low sad voice in startling proximity to my ear. "Indeed!" I said, not caring this time to take the trouble to move (you see I had got to consider the unusual quite as a matter of course), "may I ask why?" But there was no answer. I lay there on the sofa, with closed eyes, I knew there was a form close to me, that if I looked I should see some shape, but a strange reluctance seemed to prevent my doing so-a presentiment of evil, an indefinable horror, thrilled strangely through me, but I struggled against it and forced myself to look. instant I got a glimpse of the bearded face and sad grey eyes I had seen before leaning over me; then, I felt stifling, powerless; I knew that pitiless torso was slowly, surely, smotheringly, crushing down upon me, and that there was no escape. Closer and closer still it came stealthily on, and gasping for breath I awoke from my dream, to find myself lying on my back on the sofa, the old brown snuffing at my face, and the bright May sun shining in through the opposite window.

For an

Didn't I tell you that I "suspected I fell asleep" in front of the fire? 0.

THE DIRGE OF DE CLARE.

THE family of De Clare, sprung from the Dukes of Normandy, had large possessions and great influence in the West of England, and eventually extended their power into many parts of Wales. One of them, Walter, who died in 1131, was the founder of Tintern Abbey. Of Richard Fitz-Gilbert (De Clare) it is related that, returning into Gwent (Monmouthshire), from his estates in Cardigan, unarmed, and accompanied only by his minstrel and singer, he was suddenly set upon in a mountainous pass, called Coed Grono, a few miles from Abergavenny, and treacherously slain. The place is still known as Coed Dial, i.e., Wood of Revenge.

DARK are thy woods, Coed Grono;
Lonely and bare.

Deep in thy shades, Coed Grono,
A granite block, no common block, I swear,
Marks where low lie,

Waiting Eternity,

The bones of the Norman, Richard De Clare.

Fair was that eve, Coed Grono,
When under the shade
The knight and his minstrels
Rode down through thy glade ;
The chaunt of the gleeman

Rang clear through the wood,
And the harper, responsive,
Kept time to his mood;
Till the knight,

In delight,

Let his good steed pace on,

Whilst on him and his day-dreams Love and victory shone.

First they sang the wild songs
Of the Vikings, who bore
Their conquering banners

To Neustria's shore,
When Rollo, triumphaut

By field and by flood,
Sowed the thrones of great empires
In furrows of blood:
Then erect grew his head,

And, with fire in his eye,
All the warrior woke in him,
To conquer or die;
But a change in the lay
Drove the fire-look away,
And his forehead sank low,
And his cheek was aglow,
As, softly and sweetly,
Came Love for their theme,
And Beauty, all-worshipped,
Was Queen of his dream.

Till bright rose the moon, Coed Grono,
On the points of thy leaves;
And the points of the spears, Cced Grono
(Still Beauty deceives),

That lurked in the bushes and through the dim light,

Murd'rously flew at the fearless breast, Happy in day-dreams, happy in rest, Of Richard, the peerless knight.

Cursed be thy woods, Coed Grono,
Shattered and bare

Every trunk in thy sod, Coed Grono;
For, lo what is there?-

Three riderless steeds

CHAPTER XXXI. FREDERICK GREY'S

66 CROTCHET."

THAT a strong tide, rolling from one end of South Wennock to the other, had set in against Mr. Stephen Grey, was a fact indisputable. Immediately subsequent to the inquest on Mrs. Crane the tide of public opinion had set in for him; people seemed to feel ashamed of having suspected him of so fatal an error, and they made much of Mr. Stephen Grey. This prevailed for a week or two, and then the current changed. One insinuated a doubt, another insinuated a doubt; some said Mr. Stephen had been culpably careless; others said he had been tipsy. And the current against the surgeon went flowing on until it became as a rushing torrent, threatening to engulf him in its angry might.

Another indisputable fact was, that a great inciter to this feeling was Mr. Carlton. It was he who did the most towards fanning the flame. This was not generally known, for Mr. Carlton's work was partially effected in secret; but still it did in a measure ooze out, especially to the Greys. That Mr. Carlton's motive must be that of increasing his own practice, was universally assumed; but it was an underhand way of doing it, and it caused young Frederick Grey to boil over with indignation.

On a sofa in the house of Mr. Stephen Grey, lay a lady with a pale face and delicate features. It was Stephen Grey's wife. She had just returned home after seven or eight months' absence at the continental spas, whither she had gone with her sister, a wealthy widow, hoping to pick up renewed health; for she, Mrs. Grey, suffered always from an affection of the spine.

Frederick was bending over her. The boy loved nothing so much on earth as his mother. He was imparting to her all the wonders, pleasant and unpleasant, that had occurred during her absence: the tragedy which had taken place in Palace Street, and its present consequences to Mr. Stephen Grey, naturally forming the principal topic. This had not been written to Mrs. Grey. "As well not disturb her with disagreeable matters," Mr. Stephen had remarked at the time. She was growing excited over the recital, and she suddenly sat up, looking her son full in the face. "I cannot understaud, Frederick. Either your papa did put the opium into the mixture

66

My dear, I do not dispute it: I should be excessively astonished to hear that your papa had been careless enough to do such a thing. What I want to know is this-with your testimony and your Uncle John's combined, with the experience of years that they have had in your father, and with the acquitting verdict of the coroner's jury, why have people got up this prejudice against him?"

"Because they are fools," logically answered Frederick. "I don't suppose there are ten people in the place who would call in papa now. It does make Uncle John so

mad!"

"It must give him a great deal of extra work," observed Mrs. Stephen Grey.

"He is nearly worked off his legs. Some of our patients have gone over altogether to the enemy, Carlton. It is he who is the chief instigator against papa. And he does it in such a sneaking, mean way. 'I am grieved to be called in to take the place of Mr. Stephen Grey,' he says. No man can more highly respect him than I do, or deplore more deeply the lamentable mistake. I cannot but think he will be cautious for the future: still, when the lives of those dear to us, our wives and children, are at stake▬▬

Mrs. Grey could not avoid an interrupting laugh, Frederick was imitating Mr. Carlton so quaintly.

"How do you know he says this to people ?" she asked.

with a series of disasters in the flight; were pitched out of Mr. Carlton's carriage into the mud-I suppose he was driving madly like a second Phaeton-and Miss Laura lost one of her shoes. She's Lady Laura now-and was then, for that matter, if they had but known it it's said that Mr. Carlton did know it. They got married at Gretna Green or some of those convenient places, and when they came back to South Wennock were remarried again. | You should have seen St. Mark's church! Crowds upon crowds pushed into it.”

"And you amidst the rest, I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Grey.

Frederick laughed. "Carlton was as white as a sheet, and kept looking round as if he feared some interruption. Bad men are always cowards. By the way, Lady Jane has come back to the house on the Rise."

"My boy, do you know I think you are too bitter against Mr. Carlton. It was not a right thing, certainly, to run away with a young lady, but that is not our affair; and it is very wrong to incite people against your papa-if he does do it; but, with all that, you are scarcely justified in calling him a bad man."

"Ah, but that's not all," said Frederick. "Mother, I hate Mr. Carlton ! As to being bitter against him, I only wish I could be bitter; bitter to some purpose."

"Frederick!"

The boy half sank upon his knees to bring his face on a level with Mrs. Grey's, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I believe it was Mr. Carlton who put the prussic acid into the draught."

Mrs. Grey, startled to tremor, almost to anger, frightened at the temerity of Frederick, could only stare at him.

"Look here," he continued, in some excitement. "The draught went out of our house right, I know, and the boy delivered it as it was sent.

Why then did Mr. Carlton take hold of it when it arrived and call out that it smelt of prussic acid ? It could not have smelt of prussic acid then; or, if it did, some magic had been at work."

Mrs. Grey knew how fond her son was of fancies, but she had never seen him so terribly earnest as this. She put up her hand to stop his words.

"It is of no use, mother; I must speak. This suspicion of Mr. Carlton fell upon me that night. When we heard of the death, I and Uncle John ran down to Palace Street. Carlton was in the chamber, and he began talking of what had taken place, and of his own share in the previous events of the evening how he had smelt the draught on its being brought in, and his coming off to ask

Mr. Stephen Grey whether it was all right, and then going home and making up a draught on his own account and not getting back with it in time. He told all this readily and glibly, and Uncle John and Mr. Lycett took it in for gospel; but I did not. A feeling suddenly came over me that he was acting a part. was too frank, too voluble; it was exactly as though he were rehearsing a tale learnt by heart; and I declare that a conviction flashed into my mind that it was he who had done it all."

He

"You frighten me to faintness," gasped Mrs. Grey. "Have you reflected on what might be the awful consequences to Mr. Carlton were such an accusation to get abroad?"

my

"I am not going to speak of it abroad; but mother, I must tell you: it has been burning heart away since that night. I dare not breathe it to papa or to Uncle John: they would call it one of my crotchety fancies, and say I was only fit for Bedlam. But you know how often you have been surprised at the quickness with which I read people and their motives, and you have called it a good gift from God. That Carlton was acting a part that night, I am certain; there was truth neither in his eye nor on his lip. He saw that I doubted him too, and wanted to get me from the chamber. Well, that was the first phase in my suspicion ; and the next was his manner at the inquest. The same glib, ready tale was on his tongue; he seemed to have all the story at his fingers' ends. The coroner complimented him on the straightforward way in which he gave his evidence; but I know that I read LIE in it from the beginning to the end."

What

"Answer me a question, Frederick. has so prejudiced you against Mr. Carlton?

"I was not previously prejudiced against him. I declare to you, mamma, that when I entered the chamber where the poor lady lay dead, I had not, and never had had any prejudice against Mr. Carlton. I had felt rather glad that he had set up in the place, because papa and Uncle John and Whittaker were so worried with the extent of the practice. It was when he was speaking of the draught that an inward conviction stole over me that he was speaking falsely, deceitfully, and that he knew more about it than he would say.”

"I should call it an inward fiddlestick, were the subject less awfully serious," reproved Mrs. Grey. "It would be better for you to bring reason and common-sense to bear upon this, Frederick, than an 'inward conviction,' vague and visionary. Was this young lady not a stranger to Mr. Carlton ?"

"I expect she was. To him as well as to us."