his hair streaming as in the blast of a furnace, was going to strike
the little shrinking child--Miss Furnivall, the old woman by my side,
cried out, 'Oh father! father! spare the little innocent child!' But
just then I saw--we all saw--another phantom shape itself, and grow
clear out of the blue and misty light that filled the hall; we had not
seen her till now, for it was another lady who stood by the old man,
with a look of relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That figure was
very beautiful to look upon, with a soft, white hat drawn down over the
proud brows, and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an open robe
of blue satin. I had seen that figure before. It was the likeness of
Miss Furnivall in her youth; and the terrible phantoms moved on,
regardless of old Miss Furnivall's wild entreaty,--and the uplifted
crutch fell on the right shoulder of the little child, and the younger
sister looked on, stony, and deadly serene. But at that moment, the dim
lights, and the fire that gave no heat, went out of themselves, and
Miss Furnivall lay at our feet stricken down by the palsy--death-stricken.

Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never to rise again. She lay
with her face to the wall, muttering low, but muttering always: 'Alas!
alas! what is done in youth can never be undone in age! What is done in
youth can never be undone in age!'

THE POOR CLARE

Chapter 1

December 12th, 1747.--My life has been strangely bound up with
extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any
connection with the principal actors in them, or, indeed, before I even
knew of their existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more
given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond
interest and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the
events--though these may have far more interest for the
multitude--immediately passing before their eyes. If this should be the
case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me!... If
I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must
begin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her
family history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any one
else, I must arrange events in the order in which they occurred--not
that in which I became acquainted with them.

There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part
they call the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named