peak behind the wall. The words,
however, were peculiar.

"When the wicked perisheth there is shouting," it said; and added, "As
the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more" (with a deeper growl):
"terrors take hold of him as waters; hell is naked before him. He shall
die without knowledge."

A fierce flash and sharp crack violated the calm of night. Yorke, ere he
turned, knew the four convicts of Birmingham were avenged.

CHAPTER XXXI.

UNCLE AND NIECE.

The die was cast. Sir Philip Nunnely knew it; Shirley knew it; Mr.
Sympson knew it. That evening, when all the Fieldhead family dined at
Nunnely Priory, decided the business.

Two or three things conduced to bring the baronet to a point. He had
observed that Miss Keeldar looked pensive and delicate. This new phase
in her demeanour smote him on his weak or poetic side. A spontaneous
sonnet brewed in his brain; and while it was still working there, one of
his sisters persuaded his lady-love to sit down to the piano and sing a
ballad--one of Sir Philip's own ballads. It was the least elaborate, the
least affected--out of all comparison the best of his numerous efforts.

It chanced that Shirley, the moment before, had been gazing from a
window down on the park. She had seen that stormy moonlight which "le
Professeur Louis" was perhaps at the same instant contemplating from her
own oak-parlour lattice; she had seen the isolated trees of the
domain--broad, strong, spreading oaks, and high-towering heroic
beeches--wrestling with the gale. Her ear had caught the full roar of
the forest lower down; the swift rushing of clouds, the moon, to the
eye, hasting swifter still, had crossed her vision. She turned from
sight and sound--touched, if not rapt; wakened, if not inspired.

She sang, as requested. There was much about love in the
ballad--faithful love that refused to abandon its object; love that
disaster could not shake; love that in calamity waxed fonder, in poverty
clung closer. The words were set to a fine old air; in themselves they
were simple and sweet. Perhaps, when read, they wanted force; when
_well_ sung, they wanted nothing. Shirley sang them well. She breathed
into the feeling softness; she poured round the passion force. Her voice
was fine that evening, its expression dramatic. She impressed all, and
charmed one.

On leaving the instrument she went to the fire, and sat down on a
seat--semi-stool, semi-cushion. The ladies were round her; non