eriod of her life. His sympathies did not
seem so lively as the Doctor could have wished. Perhaps he had vastly
more important objects of solicitude in his own spiritual interests.

A knock at the door interrupted them. The Reverend Mr. Fairweather rose
and went towards it. As he passed the table, his coat caught something,
which came rattling to the floor. It was a crucifix with a string of
beads attached. As he opened the door, the Milesian features of Father
McShane presented themselves, and from their centre proceeded the
clerical benediction in Irish-sounding Latin, Pax vobiscum!

The Reverend Doctor Honeywood rose and left the priest and his disciple
together.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE SPIDER ON HIS THREAD.

There was nobody, then, to counsel poor Elsie, except her father, who had
learned to let her have her own way so as not to disturb such relations
as they had together, and the old black woman, who had a real, though
limited influence over the girl. Perhaps she did not need counsel. To
look upon her, one might well suppose that she was competent to defend
herself against any enemy she was like to have. That glittering, piercing
eye was not to be softened by a few smooth words spoken in low tones,
charged with the common sentiments which win their way to maidens'
hearts. That round, lithe, sinuous figure was as full of dangerous life
as ever lay under the slender flanks and clean-shaped limbs of a panther.

There were particular times when Elsie was in such a mood that it must
have been a bold person who would have intruded upon her with reproof or
counsel. "This is one of her days," old Sophy would say quietly to her
father, and he would, as far as possible, leave her to herself. These
days were more frequent, as old Sophy's keen, concentrated watchfulness
had taught her, at certain periods of the year. It was in the heats of
summer that they were most common and most strongly characterized. In
winter, on the other hand, she was less excitable, and even at times
heavy and as if chilled and dulled in her sensibilities. It was a
strange, paroxysmal kind of life that belonged to her. It seemed to come
and go with the sunlight. All winter long she would be comparatively
quiet, easy to manage, listless, slow in her motions; her eye would lose
something of its strange lustre; and the old nurse would feel so little
anxiety, that her whole expression and aspect would show the change, and
people woul