"I TELL you, Hardy, it's no use your standing talking there, I've made up my mind. I've given you notice, and go you must."

       "But, sir, it's very hard to leave the place that one's father and their fathers have lived in so long — ay, this hundred years or more. know I was a little behind with the rent this quarter; but it's the first time that any one could say George Hardy was behind with his payments; and, please God, it shall be the last."

       "I tell you, it's no use your whining here like a woman; if you can't pay your rent regularly, I must find some one who can: Holly Farm is too good a one to have a bad tenant."

       "A bad tenant, Mr. Close! I arn't the man as deserves those words. If any man has ever tried to improve his land in the whole of this country — ay, and done it too — it's me. Why, there is not a rood of that farm that is not worth double what it was ten years gone."

       "And therefore you ought to pay double the rent for it; and you can't, so you must go."

       The speaker was a middle-aged man, with a spare, wizened form, and a face on which avarice and cunning were imprinted in very legible characters. His small, sunken eyes, overhung by heavy, scowling brows; the hard, sneering lips, which could grin but never smile — all told that Ephraim Close might be a good man of business, but that he was certainly not a philanthropist. And in this case the physiognomy was not belied by the mind; for if one-tenth of what was said of him was true, he was the most hard-hearted, griping old miser this side of the Cheviots.

       He was sitting at a table in an old-fashioned oaken panelled room. On one side sat his right-hand, his invaluable, faithful man of business, Gideon Crakes, who was a fit servant for such a master.

       Opposite Ephraim Close, with his head slightly bowed, stood a man on whose face was an expression of distress, the more painful because it seemed so out of place on those resolute features — on a countenance which warranted the belief that no wrongdoing of his own could have made his misery deserved. He was one of that class peculiar to England, the sturdy independent yeoman; one whose ancestors might have numbered among them some of those iron-hearted bowmen whose undaunted courage won victory from reluctant fortune at Cressy and Poictiers.

       He was a perfect contrast to the two men before whom he stood: on the one side honesty, generosity, and frankness; on the other, cunning, meanness, and deceit.

       He stood there nervously twisting his hat round and round; spite of the firmly-compressed lips it seemed that every moment the tears would fill those eyes, to which they must indeed have been rare visitors.

       The small, cunning eyes of Ephraim Close twinkled with malicious pleasure as he watched the emotion on that strong man's face.

       "If you've got nothing more to say, you'd better go. Hardy — you'll turn out on Monday; and mind every penny of your rent is ready, else you'll suffer for it."

       "We've had a terrible bad time of it lately, sir, what with so many of the stock dying, and those two stacks being burnt down, and little Willy's illness.

       "Don't talk to me of little Willy; what the devil is he to me? Am I Providence, that you are to make me responsible for all your misfortunes? Am I to lose my money because a great big gaby like you can't make head against one or two losses? Do you think I've no risks with my money? do you think funds never rise or fall, good securities never become bad ones? do you think safe companies never go to smash? Oh! what a number of sweet golden pounds have not I lost by the villany of others; and am I to be cheated out of my just dues by a great hulking giant like that, who ought to work his fingers to the bone instead of coming grizzling here. Send the fellow away, Crakes; d—n him, send him away!"

       His voice had risen to a shrill passionate scream, as malice, hate, and avarice struggled for the pre-eminence in his heart.

       Hardy turned to go without a word. The eyes of Ephraim gleamed with rage; and he rubbed his wizened hands together as he cried, with a chuckle, "Ha! ha! Crakes, I think we shall soon tame that fellow's high spirit, eh? He! he! he! and his fine lady wife's too!"

       It was the evening of the day on which this interview took place. Around the fire in the kitchen of Holly Farm, where was wont to meet a family which till lately had been a perfect model of peaceful, contented happiness, was now gathered a sad group. On one side sat George Hardy, his face covered with his hands, his whole attitude expressive of utter despondency.

       Opposite him, in an arm-chair, propped up with pillows, lay the invalid boy, poor little Willy: his pale, thin cheek and sunken, dim eyes gave but little hope of the recovery for which his parents so fondly hoped and prayed. His mother, whose youthful beauty had been chastened by recent sufferings, which, however, had but brightened the winning tenderness of her expression, held one of his emaciated hands between hers; and as she lovingly stroked it or gently smoothed the pillows which supported his throbbing head, the ghost of a smile would cast a faint twilight over the features whose sunshine pain had quenched; the thin, shrunken, bloodless lips looked as if they would fain utter loving thanks. Poor child! he struggled to nod cheerfully at his little sister, who sat on the stool before the fire, watching with large and wistful eyes every movement on the suffering face, unable to realize the fatal shadow that had fallen on her once merry playmate.

       Mary Hardy watched her husband for some time with a long, anxious gaze; still he sat, the same crushed, despairful figure. At last she gently laid Willie's hand, and stole quietly to Hardy's side. Softly laying her hand on his shoulder, she tried to arouse him.

       "Look up, George dear; you will break my heart if you give way like this!"

       He lifted up his face, stamped with that bitterness which undeserved misfortune so often engenders; his eyes were dry and hot: his was not the sorrow which melts away in tears.

       "It is no manner of use, Mary dear, fighting against our luck; our happy days are over. Just look how misfortune after misfortune has dogged us for the last six months: everything has gone wrong with us; and now we are going to be turned out of this house, where I was born, and my father before me and his father before him: and we shall be sold up too, for we can't pay the rent — not we!"

       "Oh, George dear, won't any of the neighbours help us?"

       "The neighbours help us! That's a pretty good notion. People don't lend money nowadays unless they've got uncommon safe security for it; and I should like to know what security we can offer? If we could only remain on this farm, and were to have fair-play, why then, maybe, all things would come round straight; but we are going to be turned out next week, and with no other place to go to except the work-house. By G—d, it is downright cruel of Mr. Close! What harm have I ever done to him that he should kick me out of my home without giving me a chance of picking up?" He paused here, and dashed his fist on his knee with a fierce curse: Why, he's as severe on me as if I'd been and given him some mortal offence or other; when I'm sure, with all the hard words as he's given me, I've been as civil and quiet to him as if he'd been as kind a landlord as Master Harry would have been — bless his heart! — if he'd had his own. And to think of that poor dear boy there: why, the moving of him will be the death of him, I'll be bound."

       The little girl had moved her stool nearer Willie's chair, and was nestling her head on his lap. He was playing with her hair in a dreamy, languid manner, and he did not hear what his father was saying.

       Hardy, whose bitter sense of injustice was rising, went on, as if arguing with Fortune: "What have I done to deserve this knock-down blow? What harm have I ever worked to any man that my cattle alone in all the estate should catch the disease and die; that my stacks should be burnt down; that my crops should all fail; that I alone of all the folk at the fair should be paid in forged notes? I never was a hard master or a bad bargainer — I never was. Have I been a bad husband — eh, Mary?"

       He turned round fiercely on her. She could scarce answer for her sobs. Throwing her arms around his neck, she strained him to her bosom. "Oh! George, George, that you should ask me such a question! No, it is I that have been a bad wife to you. I have brought all this misfortune on you. I thought that when, in spite of all father's threats, I married the man whom I loved so deeply, I should have brought happiness and comfort to his home. Oh, George, I have been a curse to you — I have indeed, I have indeed!"

       She sobbed as if her heart was breaking. He had forgotten all his wrongs now.

       "Oh, Mary, Mary! has sorrow crazed thee, my own darling lass? What do you mean? What a selfish beast I've been to growl and curse like this. I've been only helping to break your heart instead of trying to cheer you up a bit. Hush, darling; don't cry so. Look at poor little Willie: he don't know what to make of it."

       He tenderly raised her head, which was resting on his shoulder. She went back to her old seat, and once more she clasped the worn little hand, holding it close to her breast, watering it with her silent tears. The little life that was left in the frame leapt to the eyes in one look of yearning love; and leaning over from his chair with much effort, he laid his head on his mother's breast; then raising up his lips as if the would fain kiss away her tears, his spirit passed away for ever from this sad and cruel world.

*       *       *       *      *

       Ephraim Close was what the world calls a very lucky man. Originally an attorney's clerk, he quickly stepped into his master's shoes; and, having been early distinguished by the absence of all those qualities which stand in the way of a man, if he has to be the zealous tool of those who pass their lives in making practical experiments as to how much villany can be committed under the cloak of legal justice, he was fortunate enough to be selected by old Squire Jewel, the owner of Oakley Park, to carry out his schemes of revenge against his only son and heir, who had ventured to consult his own affections, rather than his father's fancy, in the choice of a wife. Easily led when duly rewarded, humble in the presence of wealth to a share of which servility might help him, unfettered by prejudices or scruples, Ephraim Close was an admirable agent for the old man's resentment. Whatever faults ill-natured gossips might accuse the attorney of, no one ever imputed to him a taint of weakness or hesitation when a dirty job was to be done. As Ephraim carried out into action every spiteful fancy of the old Squire against his son, he became the receptacle of all that scorn and contempt which the unnatural father should have felt towards himself, not towards his wretched tool; so that when, having exhausted every other injury and insult, old Jewel determined not only to disinherit his son, but to do it with the circumstances of the greatest degradation possible, he chose Ephraim Close as his heir; since he felt fully sure that, search where he might, he could hardly hope to find one who would be so certain to inspire his son with loathing and disgust, or so unlikely to do violence to the spirit of the testator by bestowing any charity on the rightful heir of the estate. Ephraim Close had not yet reached the zenith of his prosperity when he cast his eyes on Mary Jenkinson, the pretty and only daughter of a respectable squireen; and, after a good view, came to the conclusion that she was a woman whose beauty and respectable fortune rendered her worthy of the honour of being Mrs. Close. It would be too much to say that the attorney was in love; but no doubt he thought that beauty was one of those things which money ought to be able to procure, and was worth the purchase. In his simple, unaffected way he looked upon matrimony as a partnership of two persons, to be regulated by the same principles as any other partnership. Each party brought some advantage to the other: the one might have capital, the other an influential connection, &c. So, when he found himself becoming every day more necessary to Mr. Jewel, he never doubted for a single moment that this important addition to his previous advantages — no mean one in his own eyes — would cause the fair Mary to jump at the chance of allying herself with such a desirable partner. Accordingly, with no little self-confidence, he offered his hand, his purse, and his prospects; and, after feeling for it in rather an uncertain manner, his heart; only to meet with a refusal which was as scornful as it was unexpected. Before astonishment had time to change to resentment, he related his failure to old Mr. Jenkinson, who heartily sympathized with him, and supported his suit with his utmost authority. But in vain; for three weeks afterwards Mary became the wife of the handsome young farmer George Hardy; thereby forfeiting her father's affection for ever, and unconsciously bringing to the husband she loved so devotedly a terrible dowry of misfortune.

       Ephraim Close was not the man to submit to such a disappointment as this with Christian resignation. Mary's refusal was rendered more galling by the knowledge that his rival was beneath him in station; and from that day the young couple had an enemy whose watchful malice lost no opportunity of undermining their happiness, and whose subsequent and unexpected elevation to the lordship of Oakley Park gave him the power — the will he had never wanted to effect their utter ruin. So singularly was he aided in his wicked purposes by the freaks of Fortune, that he seemed to be reaching the goal of his revenge too quickly. He made one more effort to obtain his original object: he uttered proposals to Mary Hardy more infamous than he had dared to make to Mary Jenkinson; and not all her consideration for her husband could make her remember how completely he was in the power of the man at whom she launched her contemptuous indignation. The remembrance came too late; and, if anything was needed to add bitterness to her grief under the misfortunes that so soon overtook them, it was the terrible reflection that she was the unwilling cause of all the savage hate that was pursuing her dear husband to ruin.

       It was about three months after the death of little Willie when Ephraim Close was sitting in his library, going through what to him were the most delightful books ever written, his account-books. There was a knock at the door, and Gideon Crakes entered.

       "There's a woman wants to see you, sir."

       "What woman?" asked Ephraim.

       "Why, that Mrs. Hardy. I told her you were busy, but she said she must see you."

       "Let her come in. I'm always glad to see a pretty woman, though she may be a bit of a fine lady; he! he! he! Show her in, Gideon."

       The worthy master of Oakley Hall had not done chuckling when Crakes returned, ushering in Mary Hardy. She was poorly clad, her face was worn with sorrow, she was sadly altered. Ephraim's eyes twinkled at her from beneath their shaggy eyebrows with diabolical triumph. "Take a seat pray, Mrs. Hardy; take a seat," he said, bowing with mock politeness.

       "I wish to speak to you alone, sir."

       "Gideon, leave the room. Mrs. Hardy is not afraid of being left alone with me; she knows how fond I am of her."

       The brutal sneer with which he said this made Mary's cheek tingle with blushes. After a slight pause, during which those hateful eyes seemed to drink in every sign of poverty and distress too visible in her appearance, she began:

       "Mr. Close, I have come to make one last appeal to your mercy — if you know what mercy is."

       "How hard my dear Mary is on me — very hard!"

       She shuddered, and bit her lip to restrain her scorn.

       "If you desired to see my husband and myself brought down from comfort and happiness to want and misery, your wish has been gratified."

       "Poor Mary! She is not quite what she used to be, is she?"

       "Our home is gone, our little property lost or sold to pay your claims on us; my only remaining child, my little girl, is now very ill; I am expecting soon to be confined with another; my husband has not been able to work, and we are quite destitute; our hearts are well nigh broken. Are you not yet satisfied? Will you not grant us some chance? Give us but the means to go somewhere else, far away from you, where, with God's help, we may get a living; where the bitter shame of our altered fortunes will not always meet us in the face; where the memory of our poor dead boy will not live in everything around us! Oh, Mr. Close, if I have ever offended you, however unwillingly, forgive me, I entreat you — I have suffered; or, at least, punish me, and spare my husband: give him some help; he is getting desperate. Oh, sir, on my knees I beseech you, if ever you loved any mortal being, for their sake spare him! Do not, ol, do not drive him into crime!"

       She had fallen on her knees before Ephraim's chair, her eyes were raised in agonized entreaty to his hard, relentless face, looking in vain through their tears for any trace of mercy there.

       "How beautiful she looks when she's in distress! She quite reminds me of the pretty Mary that used to laugh at Ephraim Close, the horrid little attorney's clerk. Yes, she did, bless her merry little heart!"

       "Oh! sir, will you make me my husband's murderess?"

       "No; you shall be his saviour if you will only consent to be my own dear little Mary. We'll soon make the roses come back to these thin cheeks." He had thrown his arm around her neck, and was trying to kiss her. She sprang from his grasp, her eyes flashing with indignant scorn; and in another moment she was gone, before the heartless wretch could add another to his brutal insults.

*       *       *       *      *

       In a hovel just outside the bounds of the Oakley estate, in the one room that served for kitchen, sitting-room, and bedroom, lay Mary Hardy. She had been confined of a still-born child. By the bedside stood a rickety table, on which were some medicine bottles, and a jug of cooling drink sent by some kind-hearted neighbour. In a broken chair, his hand in hers, sat a man whose dishevelled hair and tangled beard suited well with the fearful despair on his countenance. If ever there was a face from which all hope, joy, and peace had died away for ever, it was George Hardy's. A small and humble coffin lay in one corner of the room.

       "George dear, you are there still, darling?" The thin white hand clasped his with feverish strength. The shadow of death was on her eyes; the faint whisper, half choked by the slow, drawn breath, ushered in the silence of the grave.

       "You will promise me not to despair! Little Nelly is gone — my baby, thank God, never lived — I am going from you: you will have no ties, dear George, now — none but yourself to support. Oh, darling! as you love me, strive to be good and brave! live so that we may meet at last in heaven: promise me that!" The lips still moved as if to repeat their entreaty, the uplifted eyes looked a prayer to God — a prayer borne on the wings of the soul that had fled from earthly sorrows for ever.

       He remained there as if frozen: the tears would not come. At last he fell on his knees. He held her arm still, as if it were a link that bound him to better and gentler thoughts: but despair had overcome grief. He kissed the pale, parted lips. To look on her was but to madden him. He stands now, with a fierce, hard look, by the bedside, and with one hand resting on hers, the other savagely clenched, he utters a vow of revenge terrible in its whispered intensity.

       Through a little window beside the door peered a wizened face, puckered with malicious joy. Little did Ephraim Close think that from that desolating misery, over which he was now gloating, had sprung a hate more fierce, more relentless even than that in the gratification of which he now triumphed.

       George Hardy followed his wife and child to the grave. Her relations wanted to pay her funeral expenses; they even offered some temporary assistance to the widower; but he refused all proffers of assistance from them with scorn. The neighbours, however, insisted on saving mother and child from the disgrace of a pauper's funeral. But all endeavours to assist Hardy himself, however well intended, met with the same obstinate refusal; immediately he had seen the coffins committed to the earth he disappeared from the neighbourhood of Oakley, and nobody could discover what became of him. Some time after, a man was taken up for highway robbery in a neighbouring county, who, though giving a different name, answered somewhat to the description of George Hardy. His identity, however, would never have been established had not Mr. Crakes taken it into his head to attend the trial. He returned to his master with the grateful news that his old enemy was condemned to penal servitude for a long term; upon hearing which, Mr. Close charitably remarked that he had always "felt perfectly sure that man Hardy never would come to any good."

       It was about six months after the death of Mary when one day the gossips of Oakley village were thrown into a state of unusual excitement by the announcement in the county papers that "Ephraim Close, Esq., of Oakley Park, was about to lead to the altar Miss Julia Weatherley, youngest daughter of Sir James Weatherley, of Weatherley Hall, &c., &c." Mr. Gideon Crakes assumed a more important air than ever, as he superintended the preparations for the happy event. Upholsterers took possession of all the grand rooms up at the Park; and the memory of the oldest inhabitant was taxed in vain to produce a precedent for such an invasion. A rumour gained ground, at one time, that an immense feast of roast beef and plum-pudding, with old ale ad libitum, would be given to the tenants — a rumour which was based upon the fact that Mr. Crakes had ordered in some half-dozen barrels of the very smallest beer which the ingenuity of the neighbouring brewer could supply. It was even said that a cook was coming down express from London with a banquet already cooked, and that a whole establishment of servants would soon follow. However, be that as it might, there is no doubt the ci-devant attorney strutted about with the air of a conquering beau; he actually came out in a green coat with brass buttons, and knee-breeches and tops, so that the farmers thought he was really going to turn out a fine country gentleman after all; and the country gentlemen themselves entertained visions of his subscribing to the county hunt, which were equally fallacious. It wanted but a fortnight to the happy day, when Mr. Ephraim Close fell ill, and it was even feared that the marriage would have to be put off; but to that the bridegroom's anxiety would not consent, and by dint of a little nursing he had recovered sufficiently in a week to attend to business, though he still appeared rather shaky.

       The wedding was fixed for a Tuesday, On the previous Friday evening, Crakes, who since his master's illness had always slept in his room, was helping him to undress.

       "Do you know, sir," said he, "I've been wanting to tell you of a rather curious thing that has happened. For the last two or three days I've missed food from the larder. I was counting over the knives, too, yesterday, and I found one of them is short."

       "Good gracious!" said Ephraim, turning ghastly pale; "you don't mean to tell me that there are thieves in this house?"

       "Well, I don't know about that. I've not missed anything else, and I thought old Betty might have been laying her hands on some perquisites, now she sees you're likely to have some new servants here who may put her nose out of joint; but, however, she swears she don't know anything about it. I've put a padlock on the larder door, and I don't think we shall miss anything else from there."

       "Oh, I know we shall be all murdered in our beds!" exclaimed Ephraim, trembling. "This comes of all my extravagance. Gideon, promise me you will sit up and watch to-night. You've got the pistols, eh?"

       He was so nervous from his illness that Gideon had some trouble in calming him; at last he fell asleep, and the next morning, Crakes, having inspected the larder, was able to declare that the padlock had been successful in keeping out the depredator.

       The days passed away and Monday evening soon arrived. Close had been getting better and was quite exhilarated with the prospect of the morrow. He determined to devote his last solitary night to a study of his accounts; accordingly, at ten o'clock, he dismissed Crakes, telling him he might sleep in the next room, and, if he wanted him, he would ring for him. It was in the month of February, and there was a cheerful wood-fire burning in the old-fashioned grate, opposite which Ephraim seated himself in his arm-chair, at a small table, with his account-books spread out before him. It was a fine old room, panelled with oak; the furniture was all old Honduras mahogany. The bed, a great cumbrous four-poster, was hung with faded scarlet hangings; on each side of the fireplace were two deep recesses with oaken doors, once used as closets, but which had never been opened for some time. In fact, it was only lately that Ephraim had occupied this room: he had moved into it some little time before his illness. He sat there, studying his accounts by the light of one tallow candle, carefully calculating the expenses which he had incurred on account of his marriage. He would, however, console himself occasionally by saying with a chuckle: "But she's worth it, after all, such a dainty, high-born darling! Who could ever have thought that Ephraim Close would have married the proud old baronet's daughter? ay, and he be glad enough to get me for a son-in-law, the miserable spendthrift. Poor Julia! I think she's very fond of me; she's worth twenty Mary Jenkinsons, that she is, proud though she was. I think I see her now, scornfully pushing me away from her — he! he! he! She repented it afterwards; yes, she did." Just then he was interrupted in his soliloquy by a noise from the recess to the left of the fireplace. He started up from his chair and turned pale. He went, shaking like an aspen leaf, up to the cupboard door, tried it: yes, it was fastened all right; he tried the other, fast too. It inust have been the rats. "Ah!" said he to himself, "I'll have those two lumber holes cleared out before we come back here — we'll have the rats hunted out." He went on with his work, turning over page after page — what villanies were recorded in those figures — he stopped at one item: "Paid J. M. and J. H. for doing the G. H. business, £2 0s. 0d.' Ah, that money was well spent! Yes, they were glad enough to burn his stacks, for he'd turned them off from work; and they are all safe now far enough away-ay, and so is he, safe enough in prison, working out his time, I wonder how he likes it. I hunted him down — talk about rats—–." The same noise again, louder, like something creeping about. He started up; the fire had burnt low, the candle had a long wick. Did the closet door move? No, it was only fancy. He set the candle down; somehow or other he felt restless. He tried to think of his lovely bride that was to be — No, his thoughts would come back to George Hardy. He seemed to see him, standing once more with that bitter expression on his face. "But he deserved it! What right had he to come between me and her? Was I to be crowed over by a fellow like him? Then I did not do it all; his bad luck did a great deal of it; I only had my rights. I think I see him now, standing by her dead body, shaking his fist in the air! Whom at? Perhaps me! Well, he's safe enough now: he can't hurt poor old Ephraim Close now." He had just raised his hand to snuff the candle; suddenly the snuffers dropped from his grasp! What was that that the flickering light fell on? The cupboard door is open! Good heavens! what creature is that crawling out on its hands and knees? In its mouth is a great bright carving-knife, its haggard features, wild staring eyes, and face all overgrown with shaggy unkempt hair are like a beast's! It cannot be a man! Ephraim Close is spell-bound: he cannot move hand or foot. Nearer and nearer it creeps on, like a weird corpse revivified, its round staring eyes glaring at him; he can see the large bony hands, with nails like claws! It stops and raises itself on its knees! — it has got the knife in its hand — still Close, his eyes fixed on the horrid figure, remains chained down with horror to his seat.

       Suddenly, in an unearthly whisper, came the words: "Ephraim Close! do you know me? Do you know your own devilish work? — eh? Answer me that, Ephraim Close!" He tries to rise, but is apparently too weak; with the knife in his right hand, he shambles along on his knees nearer to the terror-stricken man, When he is almost touching him he stops: "Do you know me now?" A look of awful recognition crosses Ephraim's face; his bloodless lips try in vain to utter the words which his tongue cannot syllable. The other seems to know the sounds they would form: "Yes, it is George Hardy! Yes, it is the man whose wife and children you one by one hounded to a cruel death! Yes, it is the man whom you drove to ruin and despair — to whose prayers and those of his wife, starving through your devilish malice — you turned a deaf ear! It is the man who, on the body of his murdered wife, swore to be revenged, and who has kept that oath by watching here for two weeks, and for nearly four days of them with nothing but one piece of dry bread to keep life in him; but who would have watched till he was a skeleton, for the chance of finding you alone, that he might in the dead of night cut your heart out of you! Yes, fiend! coward! you shrink from me, and well you may: you have done a devil's work; but you have not the devil's courage He spoke all this in a low, grating whisper, often pausing for breath. He seemed to have little life but what the fury of his hate gave him. He now made another effort to rise on his feet; it was in vain. Ephraim Close sat, crouched up, in the furthest corner of his chair, his face ashen grey with terror, his arms paralyzed; only once he turned around a hurried, fearful gaze towards the bell, and made as if he would move his arm towards it. It was no use; the other crawled up to him and laid his hand on his knee — how Ephraim shuddered at that touch! and well he might, for there was something in those fiercely glaring eyes, deep in their bony sockets, that needed no guilty conscience to add horror to them. With slow, painful effort he raised his arm with the gleaming knife in his hand; the blade caught a ruddy glow which looked like blood. Suddenly the arm fell, the knife dropped — he raised one hand to his face — then, clasping Ephraim's tighter with the other: "Look!" he said, pointing towards the heavy window curtains, "look at her! There she stands — with pale and tear-worn cheeks, just as she died! Mary, Mary, you are beckoning to me! Don't you see? she points at you — she looks at me with entreating gaze! Mary, what is it? — 'Remember my promise.' Hush! she is praying to me the same prayer she prayed on her deathbed: 'Promise me you will do nothing desperate — you will try and live so that we may meet our dear children in heaven' — Mary, Mary, I hear — I am coming — I will not do it!" His grasp relaxed, he feebly tried to raise his arms as if in prayer, and fell back dead.

*       *       *       *      *

       The next morning when Crakes came to call his master, he found him sitting, dead, in his chair, his eyes still fixed with the strong glare of terror on the body of George Hardy.

(THE END)