y, 'twas the impatient rapping of a knuckle on the glass quite
indisputably.

It is all very well weaving the sort of dream or poem with which Mervyn
was half amusing and half awing himself, but the sensation is quite
different when a questionable sound or sight comes uninvited to take the
matter out of the province of our fancy and the control of our will.
Mervyn found himself on his legs, and listening in a less comfortable
sort of horror, with his gaze fixed in the direction of that small sharp
knocking. But the storm was up again, and drowning every other sound in
its fury.

If Mr. Mervyn had been sufficiently frightened, he would have forthwith
made good his retreat to his bed-room, or, if he had not been frightened
at all, he would have kept his seat, and allowed his fancies to return
to their old channel. But, in fact, he took a light in his hand, and
opened a bit of the window-shutter. The snow, however, was spread over
the panes in a white, sliding curtain, that returned the light of his
candle, and hid all without. 'Twas idle trying to peer through it, but
as he did, the palm of a hand was suddenly applied to the glass on the
outside, and began briskly to rub off the snow, as if to open a
peep-hole for distinct inspection.

It was to be more this time than the apparition of a hand--a human face
was immediately presented close to the glass--not that of Nutter
either--no--it was the face of Irons--pale, with glittering eyes and
blue chin, and wet hair quivering against the glass in the storm.

He nodded wildly to Mervyn, brushing away the snow, beckoning towards
the back-door, as he supported himself on one knee on the window-stone,
and, with his lips close to the glass, cried, 'let me in;' but, in the
uproar of the storm, it was by his gestures, imperfectly as they were
seen, rather than by his words, that Mervyn comprehended his meaning.

Down went Mr. Mervyn, without a moment's hesitation, leaving the candle
standing on the passage table, drew the bolts, opened the door, and in
rushed Irons, in a furious gust, his cloak whirling about his head
amidst a bitter eddying of snow, and a distant clapping of doors
throughout the house.

The door secured again, Mr. Irons stood in his beflaked and dripping
mantle, storm-tossed, dishevelled, and alone once again in the shelter
of the Tiled House, to explain the motive of his visit.

'Irons! I could hardly believe it,' and Mervyn made a pause, and then,
filled w