times over his face, sometimes on the head of
little Jen; with his eyes at times fixed to the
ceiling with a stony stare; at times racing
round the room like horses, neck and neck.
Now a sigh, now a groan, now a clasping of
his thin fingers together. There must have
been some deep anguish and distress of mind
at the bottom of all this (it may be as well
hinted at once, it was something penitential)
the whole mystery of which lay in the fact
that this night was a Friday night, and that
the month was the Ulalume month of October.
Like enough there had been a wrong
done of an old Friday night in an old October
month. However that might be, after a long
spell of such weary throes, he turned to little
Jen and said softly, "Lend me your arm,
child, while I go up to my cabinet;" and so
leaning on her, who was as his stick always,
he passed out of the room and was presently
unlocking that notable buhl cabinet of his.

"Father," says little Jen knowingly, "you
want to fetch down the big writing-book?"

"I do, child," he answered, "and to-night
above all nights in the year. O, if I could
but write my soul clean and clear!"

Jen thought he must have done that long
since, if writing could do it: for every night
of their lives, unfailingly, the big book came
down. It was drawn forth from a little safe
inside the cabinet, which had a spring and a
click, and a shooting bolt; and that little safe
was inside again of a little cupboard; so
there was positively no getting at the big
book. Little Jen wondered what he wrote
in it; but never asked. So he came down;
and, with the racket raging high about him,
began to write. No one therefore heard
those short groans and weary heart-sore
sighs that came from him as he warmed to
his writing work. It was indeed likely
enough that Mr. Gringe had somewhere
among his chattels that ugly thing known as
a closet skeleton. It was rather a great
swollen human body, all purple and blue with
decomposition, such as the curious may see
every day through the glass windows of the
Morgue. This horrid visitor used to come
forth every night and walk up close behind
him, and never go until nearly morning. An
importunate, insolent, horrid visitor—never
to be denied seemingly—more importunate
on this October night than any other in the
year.

"Restitution, restitution!" he whispered
to himself, his pen writing the words he
whispered, "which has been sounding ding
dong in my ears for so long back: it is the
only cure, the only salvation. Better
workhouse than such a hell of thought and—"

Here the universal racket struck in, and
general outburst. The Imp having privily
fixed a needle upright in a chair where she
knew Tom would sit down. She lost a good
bunch of her hair by the transaction.

Here is another year come about now,"
he wrote on. "A year more of wretched
thought and conflict, and not one step nearer
to a resolve. Riches never brought with
them so complete a Nemesis! It must end.
Restitution it must be!"

With that he took forth a great foolscap
sheet, and began to write something headed,
"I, John Gringe, being of sound mind and
body," &c., &c., and worked down steadily to
the foot, when it would have been a very perfect
instrument indeed, but for the absence of
the signature and the two attesting witnesses.
But the poor brain-tost man had written
a whole century of such instruments; yet, not
one of them was ever executed. For there
were other influences tugging at him, making
the second party to the conflict. "Then these
poor witless wretches must go out and beg,
or starve and die. Restitution or starvation!
Starvation or restitution, which, which? And
all my doing!" Here he covered up his face;
and, swinging his long upper person to and
fro, groaned and groaned again.

Perhaps it was this that prevented his
taking heed of a letter that little Jen had
been vainly pushing into his hands for the last
few seconds. The postman had just brought
one. He opened it, and began to read
mechanically; but was presently trembling all
over with excitement. Yet he merely said,
in a low voice, "It wanted but this – it wanted
but this!" and read it through some half-
a-dozen times. The letter was on soiled
paper; was dated from the mean house-of-
call in the city, and was very short,—so
short that it may be given here:—

Old Three Tuns Inn.
DEAR MR. GRINGE,—You have never seen me,—
very likely never heard of me. I am the daughter
of your brother, Will Gringe, who, as you may
remember, went out quite destitute to the Gold Fields,
with his family, and died there of starvation. My
husband, who went after them, is dead some two
months since, of a fever. I am left with a child, and
without a farthing in the world. Help me if you can.
Your niece,
MARY CORAM.

"Poor soul!" he said, "if she only
knew!"

III

SUCH a night as that budget brought to
him! Old Gringe tossed and wrestled, and
sobbed over his dead brother and family,
saying that it was all his work, and seemed
likely to go mad. No one heard those ravings
though, for his room was fast barred.

Next day he had gotten on deeper mourning
and had sent to the Three Tuns house-of-
call, for Mistress Coram.

She came in a trice, and was standing
before him, demurely, with her little girl of
some six years old. A tall, sharp, black-eyed,
reflective girl (for she was no more than a
girl), of very few words, but prodigious
observation. She took them all in—in her
careful first glance—and was digesting the
fruits of that observation all the time after.