feeble old wretch should be brought to make
what atonement was left to him; which
indeed he was struggling every night to do.

Here was her tactique, or at least a hint
of it; for she wrought it out in a thousand
subtle and complex ways; never losing sight
of her aim for an instant.

One of those lonely October nights when
all, save the two, were gone to bed, she was
sitting beside him, close under the dull
influence of the lamp, harping on the one theme,
till long past midnight. Abundant tears
from her as she told, so naturally and
so minutely the sad history of her father's
slow decadence; of his weary progress downward
into the poor man's slough. Painfully
she dwelt on his wrestlings, his spasmodic
struggle and poor shifts; his gaspings for life
and substance, up to that final collapse
and miserable ending in a lonely place and
strange country. Not a throb; not a pang
was passed over by her, bending over to the
dull flame. It was all told in low, mysterious
voice; while Old Gringe, with sharp face, bent
forward to the lamp also, and, his thin fingers
clutched together, hearkened and breathed
hard. Thus she would send him up to bed,
reeling and tottering, at something past one
o'clock.

You may be sure that the mottled Morgue's
man had a brave night of it. While she, the
torturess, would smile to herself, as she stood
alone when he was gone, and say, softly, that it
would do. Indeed, it promised fairly enough,
for those being of sound mind and body.
Papers came thick and fast, one being drawn
out nearly every day. But always incomplete;
without signature, without attestation.
She knew well of all these maimed and
halting instruments, and stamped impatiently
in her chamber. But she held on fast to her
torture, working it remorselessly, but
ingeniously.

"Dearest uncle," she said, "there is some
mystery over the business. Poor father often
said that wicked people had got between him
and his father, and poisoned his ears against
his son. I think so too. But who?"

"Who indeed?" said Gringe, trembling.

Coram (in a low, subdued voice). "They
were murderers, uncle—real murderers.
There is blood on their hands at this moment.
Don't you think so, uncle?" (No answer.)
"Their wretched souls are haunted with
remorse; and, in another world, they will have
murderers' pay! Don't you think so, uncle?"

This treatment certainly ought to do:
but she noticed, with uneasiness, that little
Jen, who had always held to be silent as
a church mouse, had begun to talk with him
at length, and in private: and that he
seemed to be soothed by her talk. Little Jen,
too, was looking at Coram defiantly, almost
ever since that night of discovery. Perhaps,
if she held the poison, little Jen had the
antidote. Likely enough: for she once
overheard little Jen something to this effect:—

"Father, you have something on your
mind. Tell your own little Jen? Or don't
tell me a word of it." And she would unfold
—good as any preacher—what comfort, for
even greatest sinners, lay in certain good
books and treatises.

Coram hated little Jen: but still her
poison was better than little Jen's antidote,
and worked all this, while it was getting on
to the last day of October. Here was another
bit of her tactique, which she plied
simultaneously:—

"Gill," she says, "I thought you loved
horses and riding?"

"So I do," says Gill, rapping out an oath.

"Then why don't you ride?"

"Why? because the old man won't keep a
horse for 'un."

"Well," she answers, "all young men of
your age have horses, and ride."

"Have they now?" says Gill. "So they
have, I believe."

"Your father should let you have a horse:
you don't cost him much in other things."

"Dang him, he shall," says Gill. "I'll
speak to 'un to-morrow."

"Tom," she says, at another time, "how
much pocket-money does your father give you?"

"Not a copper," Tom says, opening his
eyes wide.

And thus she worked on Sue and Sal; until,
before not many days, they had all, as it were,
struck for wages, and had given the old man
a bit of their mind. He met them surlily,
and told them to get about their business.
Nearly open riot was the consequence. Gill
was a regular savage now.

Little Jen that same evening came up to
her privily, and with courage.

"Cousin Coram," she said, "you are a
wicked woman. It is you who are setting
them all against father. But I promise you I
will tell him all about the book, and that
night, and what a hypocrite you are. I know
your game."

"Bah!" was the only reply she got.

The truth was, Coram knew she durstn't
speak: for they were now approaching very
fast to the thirty-first of October—a date
written down very often in the book: and it
was noted how Gringe was getting hourly
more excited and more miserable. She, too,
had read of that date, and was looking out
for its approach. The conflict within him
seemed to rage terribly: and outside, the
insurrectionists gave no peace. With angry
growls and menaces they assailed, gathering
round him at all hours.

"Give 'un horse!" "Money!" they
shouted at him, until he grew furious at last,
and shook his poor, impotent fist at them,
and all but cursed them.

Executioner Coram, vigilant torturess,
never slackened an instant in her insidious
work: and, as little Jen stood in her way
full as much as the others, she very gingerly
put a spoke in her wheel also. Something in