moonlight shimmering on the shrouded trees,
and the stars twinkling in the frosty sky, had
such an aspect of solitude as to cast over
her a kind of chill that made her half
repent having consented to quit the house at
all, and let herself be locked up in this lonely
place.

Yet what had she to fear? No harm
could happen to her from within the chamber;
the door was safely locked outside, and strong
iron stauncheons guarded the window; there
could be no possible danger. So drawing
her chair once more to the fire, and
stirring it into a brighter blaze, she took up
a little Bible which lay on the dressing
table, and read some portions of the New
Testament.

When she laid down the book she took out
the comb that fastened up her long, dark silken
tresses—in which, despite her five-and-thirty
years, not a silver thread was visible—and, as
she arranged them for the night, her thoughts
strayed back to the old world memories
which her meeting with Mary Atherton had
revived. The sound of the clock striking two
was the first thing that recalled her to her
present life. By this time the candles were
burned down almost to the socket, and the
fire was dying fast. As she turned to fling a
fresh log into the grate her eyes fell upon the
dressing-glass, and in its reflection she saw,
or at least fancied she saw, the bed-curtains
move.

She stood for a moment gazing at the
mirror, expecting a repetition of the movement;
but all was still, and she blamed
herself for allowing nervous fears to overcome
her. Still, it was an exertion, even
of her brave spirit, to approach the bed and
withdraw the curtains. She was rewarded
by finding nothing save the bedclothes folded
neatly down as if inviting her to press the
snow-white sheets, and a luxurious pile of
pillows that looked most tempting. She
could not resist the mute invitation to rest
her wearied limbs. Allowing herself no
time for further doubts or fears, she placed
her candle on the mantel-piece, and stepped
into bed.

She was very tired, her eyes ached with
weariness, but sleep seemed to fly from her.
Old recollections thronged on her memory;
thoughts connected with the business she had
still to get through, haunted her; and
difficulties that had not occurred to her till now
arose up before her. She was restless and
feverish: and the vexation of feeling so, made
her more wakeful. Perhaps if she were to
close the curtains between her and the fire
she might be better able to sleep—the flickering
light disturbed her, and the moonbeams
stealing between the window-curtains cast
ghostly shadows on the wall. So, she
carefully shut out the light on that side, and
turned again to sleep. Whether she had or
had not quite lost consciousness she could not
well remember, but she was soon thoroughly
aroused by feeling the bed heave under her.
She started up, and awaited with a beating
heart a repetition of the movement, but it
did not come. It must have been a return
of the nervous fancies which had twice
assailed her already that night. Laying her
head once more on the pillow she determined
to control her groundless terrors.

Again she started up! This time there
could be no doubt; the bed had heaved
more than once, accompanied by a strange
gurgling sound as if of a creature in pain.
Leaning on her elbow, she listened with
that intensity of fear which desires almost
as much as it dreads a recurrence of the
sound that caused it. It came again, followed
by a loud rustling noise as if some heavy
body were dragged from under the bed in
the direction of the fire. What could it
be? She longed to call out for help, but
her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth,
and the pulses in her temples throbbed until
she felt as if their painful beating sounded
in the silence of the night like the loud tick
of a clock.

The unseen thing dragged itself along
until it reached the hearthrug, where it
flung itself down with violence. As it did
so she heard the clank of a chain. Her
breath came less painfully as she heard it,
for it occurred to her that the creature might
be nothing worse than the house dog, who,
having broken his chain, had sought shelter
beneath the bed in the warm room. Even
this notion was disagreeable enough, but it
was as nothing to the vague terror which had
hitherto oppressed her. She persuaded herself
that if she lay quite quiet no harm would
happen to her, and the night would soon pass
over. Thus reasoning, she laid herself down
again.

By-and-by the creature began to snore, and
it struck her feverish fancy that the snoring
was not like that of the dog. After a little
time, she raised herself gently, and with
trembling hands drew back an inch or two
of the curtain and peered out, thinking that
any certainty was better than such terrible
suspense. She looked towards the fire-place,
and there, sure enough, the huge creature
lay: a brown hairy mass, but of what shape
it was impossible to divine, so fitful was the
light, and so strangely was it coiled up on the
hearthrug. By and by, it began to stretch
itself out, to open its eyes which shone in the
flickering ray of the fire, and to raise its paws
above its hairy head.

Good God! those are not paws! They
are human hands; and dangling from the
wrists hang fragments of broken chains!

A chill of horror froze Ellen Stirling's veins
as a flash of the expiring fire showed her this
clearly—far too clearly—and the conviction
seized upon her mind that she was shut up
with an escaped convict. An inward invocation
to Heaven for aid, rose from her heart, as
with the whole force of her intellect, she