the reality of grief in those not far removed
from their own years--glistening in her soft eyes. Philip looked round
bewildered, and he saw that face which seemed to him, at such a time,
like the face of an angel.

"Hear her!" he murmured: "Oh, hear her! For her sake, do not sever one
orphan from the other!"

"Take away that child, Mrs. Beaufort," cried Robert, angrily. "Will you
let her disgrace herself thus? And you, sir, begone from this roof; and
when you can approach me with due respect, I will give you, as I said I
would, the means to get an honest living."

Philip rose; Mrs. Beaufort had already led away her daughter, and she
took that opportunity of sending in the servants: their forms filled up
the doorway.

"Will you go?" continued Mr. Beaufort, more and more emboldened, as he
saw the menials at hand, "or shall they expel you?"

"It is enough, sir," said Philip, with a sudden calm and dignity that
surprised and almost awed his uncle. "My father, if the dead yet watch
over the living, has seen and heard you. There will come a day for
justice. Out of my path, hirelings!"

He waved his arm, and the menials shrank back at his tread, stalked
across the inhospitable hall, and vanished. When he had gained the
street, he turned and looked up at the house. His dark and hollow eyes,
gleaming through the long and raven hair that fell profusely over his
face, had in them an expression of menace almost preternatural, from its
settled calmness; the wild and untutored majesty which, though rags and
squalor, never deserted his form, as it never does the forms of men
in whom the will is strong and the sense of injustice deep; the
outstretched arm the haggard, but noble features; the bloomless and
scathed youth, all gave to his features and his stature an aspect awful
in its sinister and voiceless wrath. There he stood a moment, like one
to whom woe and wrong have given a Prophet's power, guiding the eye of
the unforgetful Fate to the roof of the Oppressor. Then slowly, and with
a half smile, he turned away, and strode through the streets till he
arrived at one of the narrow lanes that intersect the more equivocal
quarters of the huge city. He stopped at the private entrance of a small
pawnbroker's shop; the door was opened by a slipshod boy; he ascended
the dingy stairs till he came to the second floor; and there, in a small
back room, he found Captain de Burgh Smith, seated before a table with
a couple of candles on i