sden," said Phineas. "If you have a
message to send, I will take it."

"Then you will be accursed among adulterers," said the laird of
Loughlinter. "By such a one I will send no message. From the first
moment that I saw you I knew you for a child of Apollyon. But the sin
was my own. Why did I ask to my house an idolater, one who pretends
to believe that a crumb of bread is my God, a Papist, untrue alike
to his country and to his Saviour? When she desired it of me I knew
that I was wrong to yield. Yes;--it is you who have done it all, you,
you, you;--and if she be a castaway, the weight of her soul will be
doubly heavy on your own."

To get out of the room, and then at the earliest possible hour of the
morning out of the house, were now the objects to be attained. That
his presence had had a peculiarly evil influence on Mr. Kennedy,
Phineas could not doubt; as assuredly the unfortunate man would
not have been left with mastery over his own actions had his usual
condition been such as that which he now displayed. He had been told
that "poor Kennedy" was mad,--as we are often told of the madness
of our friends when they cease for awhile to run in the common
grooves of life. But the madman had now gone a long way out of
the grooves;--so far, that he seemed to Phineas to be decidedly
dangerous. "I think I had better wish you good night," he said.

"Look here, Mr. Finn."

"Well?"

"I hope you won't go and make more mischief."

"I shall not do that, certainly."

"You won't tell her what I have said?"

"I shall tell her nothing to make her think that your opinion of her
is less high than it ought to be."

"Good night."

"Good night," said Phineas again; and then he left the room. It was
as yet but nine o'clock, and he had no alternative but to go to bed.
He found his way back into the hall, and from thence up to his own
chamber. But there was no fire there, and the night was cold. He went
to the window, and raised it for a moment, that he might hear the
well-remembered sound of the Fall of Linter. Though the night was
dark and wintry, a dismal damp November night, he would have crept
out of the house and made his way up to the top of the brae, for
the sake of auld lang syne, had he not feared that the inhospitable
mansion would be permanently closed against him on his return. He
rang the bell once or twice, and after a while the old serving man
came to him. Could he have a cup of tea? The man shook his head, and