l this
from her bed, could make up her mind what to do, the storm-beaten
figure, wringing her hands, seemed to throw herself backward, and was
gone.

Possessed with the idea that she had seen some poor woman overtaken in
the storm, who, failing to procure admission there, had gone round to
some of the many doors of the mansion, and obtained an entry there, she
again fell asleep.

It was not till the morning, when she went to her window to look out
upon the now tranquil scene, that she discovered what, being a stranger
to the house, she had quite forgotten, that this room was at a great
height--some thirty feet--from the ground.

Another story was that of good old Mr. Randal Rymer, who was often a
visitor at the house in the late Lady Mardykes' day. In his youth he had
been a campaigner; and now that he was a preacher he maintained his
hardy habits, and always slept, summer and winter, with a bit of his
window up. Being in that room in his bed, and after a short sleep lying
awake, the moon shining softly through the window, there passed by that
aperture into the room a figure dressed, it seemed to him, in gray that
was nearly white. It passed straight to the hearth, where was an
expiring wood fire; and cowering over it with outstretched hands, it
appeared to be gathering what little heat was to be had. Mr. Rymer,
amazed and awestruck, made a movement in his bed; and the figure looked
round, with large eyes that in the moonlight looked like melting snow,
and stretching its long arms up the chimney, they and the figure itself
seemed to blend with the smoke, and so pass up and away.

Sir Bale, I have said, did not like Feltram. His father, Sir William,
had left a letter creating a trust, it was said, in favour of Philip
Feltram. The document had been found with the will, addressed to Sir
Bale in the form of a letter.

"That is mine," said the Baronet, when it dropped out of the will; and
he slipped it into his pocket, and no one ever saw it after.

But Mr. Charles Twyne, the attorney of Golden Friars, whenever he got
drunk, which was pretty often, used to tell his friends with a grave
wink that he knew a thing or two about that letter. It gave Philip
Feltram two hundred a-year, charged on Harfax. It was only a direction.
It made Sir Bale a trustee, however; and having made away with the
"letter," the Baronet had been robbing Philip Feltram ever since.

Old Twyne was cautious, even in his cups, in his choice of an au