an myth. But he had not seen the pantomime founded on
the traditional narrative.

"But what was the child saying about a big Bird?" he asked. "What was it
that frightened her?"

"Oh, sir, I think it was just tiredness, and may be, a little something
hot at that supper last night; and, besides, seeing so many queer things
in pantermimes might put notions in a child's head. But when she came
home last night, a little late, Lizer was very strange. She vowed and
swore she had seen a large Bird, far bigger than any common bird, skim
over the street. Then when I had put her to bed in the attic, down she
flies, screaming she saw the Bird on the roof. I had hard work to
get her to sleep. To-day I made her lay a-bed and wear her theatre
pantermime bearskin, that fits her like another skin--and she'll be too
big for it next year--just to keep her warm in that cold garret. That's
all about it, sir. She'll be well enough in a day or two, will Lizer."

"I am sure I hope she will, Mrs. Gullick," said Maitland; "and, as I am
passing his way, I will ask Dr. Barton to call and see the little girl.
Now I must go, and I think the less we say to anyone about Miss Shields,
you know, the better. It will be very dreadful for her to learn about
her father's death, and we must try to prevent Her from hearing how it
happened."

"Certainly, sir," said Mrs. Gullick, bobbing; "and being safe away at
school, sir, we'll hope she won't be told no more than she needn't know
about it."

Maitland went forth into the thick night: a half-hearted London thaw was
filling the shivering air with a damp brown fog.

He walked to the nearest telegraph office, and did not observe, in the
raw darkness and in the confusion of his thoughts, that he was followed
at no great distance by a man muffled up in a great-coat and a woollen
comforter. The stranger almost shouldered against him, as he stood
reading his telegram, and conscientiously docking off a word here and
there to save threepence,

"From Robert Maitland to Miss Marlett.
"The Dovecot, Conisbeare,
"Tiverton.
"I come to-morrow, leaving by 10.30 train. Do
not let Margaret see newspaper. Her father dead.
Break news."

This telegram gave Maitland, in his excited state, more trouble to
construct than might have been expected. We all know the wondrous
badness of post-office pens or pencils, and how they tear or blot the
paper when we are in a hurry; and Maitland felt hurrie