e thing she can do, if only she can creep back
unnoticed. She will use all her strength to reach Mr. Dormeur's house,
and tell him what she has heard.

It is a question of minutes. Walking backward and pressing slowly
against the noiseless door, she slips out again, and, like one pursued,
begins to run at her utmost speed through the darkened streets.

* * * * *

Anton Dormeur sits alone in the grim old house. Cook and housekeeper
have gone to market for the means of providing supper. Not a footfall
sounds in the street; only the wailing voice of the watchman calling the
hour at a distance breaks the dead silence, amidst which the old man can
hear the ticking of the gold repeater in his pocket, the tinkle of the
ashes that stir in the old wide grate, where a fire has been lighted,
and the gnawing of a mouse behind the wainscot. He sits with the silver
goblet beside him on the table, his knees towards the fire, his furrowed
face quivering as he bends it down over the miniature he has taken from
its case, the miniature of his younger daughter, dead and--no, not
unforgiven--dead and mourned for now, with a silent grief that speaks of
years of desolation and remorse.

The light of the shaded lamp falling on the picture in his hands seems
to expand its lineaments; the tears that gather in his eyes almost give
quivering motion to the face before him. A strange emotion masters him.
His temples seem to throb, his hands to shake. The sudden sound of a
light single knock at the street door sets his nerves ajar; the quiet
click of the lock--a pause of deadest silence--and then the light tread
of an uncertain foot upon the stairs make him tremble; yet he knows not
why--does not even ask himself the reason. There is a lamp outside upon
the landing, he knows--the light of it shines down into the hall--and
yet he cannot stir towards it. What superstition holds him? Even at the
moment that he starts up from his chair, the portrait still in his hand,
his highly-strung senses enable him to hear a rustle that sounds quite
close, and is followed by a low knocking at the door of the room itself.

In a voice of hope, of dread, of fear, he knows not what or which, he
hoarsely cries, "Come in."

In the mirror above his head he sees the room-door partly open, and
then--yes, then--either to his waking vision or in disordered fancy, the
living original of the picture stands with pale and earnest face in the
up