volubly. But he heard nothing that concerned him from
either again, though he waited until their steps and voices were lost in
the distance.

The cool air was pleasant about his bare temples, and Mr. Paul
Dangerfield waited a while longer, and listened, for any sound of
footsteps approaching from the village, but none such was audible; and
beginning to feel a little chilly, he entered his domicile again, shut
the hall-door, and once more found himself in the little parlour of the
Brass Castle.

His housekeeper heard his harsh voice barking down the passage at her,
and rising with a start from her seat, cried,

'At your service, Sir.'

'At a quarter to twelve o'clock fetch me a sandwich, and a glass of
absynthe, and meanwhile, don't disturb me.'

And she heard him enter his little parlour, and shut the door.

'There's something to vex, but nothing to threaten--nothing. It's all
that comical dream--curse it! What tricks the brain plays us! 'Tis fair
it should though. We work it while we please, and it plays when it may.
The slave has his saturnalia, and flouts his tyrant. Ha, ha! 'tis time
these follies were ended. I've something to do to-night.'

So Mr. Dangerfield became himself again, and applied himself keenly to
his business.

When I first thought of framing the materials which had accumulated in
my hands into a narrative, dear little Lily Walsingham's death was a
sore trouble to me. 'Little' Lily I call her, but though slight, she was
not little--rather tall, indeed.

It was, however, the term I always heard connected with her pretty name
in my boyhood, when the old people, who had remembered her very long
ago, mentioned her, as they used, very kindly, a term of endearment that
had belonged to her, and in virtue of the childlike charm that was about
her, had grown up with her from childhood. I had plans for mending this
part of the record, and marrying her to handsome Captain Devereux, and
making him worthy of her; but somehow I could not. From very early times
I had known the sad story. I had heard her beauty talked about in my
childhood; the rich, clear tints, the delicate outlines, those tender
and pleasant dimples, like the wimpling of a well; an image so pure, and
merry, and melancholy withal, had grown before me, and in twilight
shadows visited the now lonely haunts of her brief hours; even the old
church, in my evening rambles along the uplands of the park, had in my
eyes so saddened a grace in th