this way it was: Old Gringe, raging and
tearing over his book, shedding miserable
tears, and vowing there is no salvation for
him here and hereafter; that evil genius
exhorts him to spiritual comfort at the
ministration ray of the Reverend Josh
MacScarbriar, or even at her hands. Why
not tell her the secret of the book, as well as
to little Jen? Note how cleverly this
is put. The old man wakens from his
dreams.

"Jen," he says, angrily, "knows nothing
of this book! Or does she?" For he had
noted, with angry suspicion, how his key had
plain marks of being disturbed from under
his pillow, and his book was not in the same
spot in his cabinet. With trembling eagerness,
he puts Coram to the question, and
extracts from her reluctant soul, that she had
indeed surprised little Jen one night fiddling
at his cabinet. But strict secresy as to this
revelation was enjoined. Henceforth
distrust and sour glance at poor Jen. But, by
that time, it had finally come to be the
morning of the thirtieth of October, eve of
that mysterious thirty-first.

IV.

A GREY, cold, shivering day, with keen,
razor-edged blasts all abroad: dark, sunless,
and dispiriting. The crew, who were, as it
were, on strike, prowled sullenly in corners,
as if they too felt its influence. Old Gringe
was not seen at all; but kept himself close
in strict retreat in his own chamber. He
must have written prodigiously; for every
time that Coram's ear was laid to the key-
hole, it heard the feeble scrapings of a pen
over paper.

It grew darker, colder, and more miserable,
until it came to five o'clock, when the
Reverend Josh MacScarbriar—sent for at
Gringe's own request—arrived, and was
shown to Gringe's own chamber. That
swaddling divine ranted and raved, and
shrieked eternal torments at him, for a good
two hours; until, indeed, froth gathered on
the man's mouth, and his eyeballs protruded.
He then went his way.

Finally, about seven o'clock, the old man
himself came tottering down, candle in hand,
looking like a true ghost; quite ghastly,
and all shrunken away since morning.
The skin was tightened, drum-like, over
his face, and he was bent down like a tall
tree in a gale. The day, and the
Reverend Josh MacScarbriar, conjointly, had
done their work. What was to be the end of
it all?

But, when that spectral figure came
tottering in feebly, the candle dancing up and
down in his fingers, looking just as though he
had come from his family vault, instead of his
room, he found complete Pandemonium rife.
Then came Babel noise and confusion; and a
ring formed in the centre of the room, with
cries of Well done! At him, boy! and other
encouragement. In short, there was a dog-
fight going on between the poor old French
poodle and the hound, being set against one
another by the crew; not being got to fight,
it must be owned, without difficulty. Just as
the old man entered, the sport might be said
to be over; for the old poodle had toppled
over on his head, and was kicking out his lean
hind paws in extremity of death; the hound
having made his fangs meet in his throat.

A very easy victory it was. Somewhat
sobered, the crew looked round, and were
quite scared at seeing this ghostly old man
shaking his shrivelled arm at them, invoking
speechless punishment on their heads, and
then tottering away as he came. They heard
him call feebly for Coram, who came to
him:

"Tell Scrivendish and his clerk," he said,
"to be here the first thing in the morning."

Joyfully and sweetly she laid herself down
to rest that night; for she knew now that
everything would be signed, sealed, and
delivered with perfect regularity in the morning.
True, little Jen had come to her, and told
her that she now saw what her wicked
plot was; that she, Coram, was killing her
poor father by inches, with what end she
knew perfectly, and that, surely as the sun
rose, she would go to him and expose to him
the whole plot.

"Bah!" said Coram, with a loud laugh.

The morning of this anniversary—the
thirty-first of October—was now come, and
Scrivendish and clerk were waiting below in
the gloomy chamber. They were shivering;
blue with cold. They were bidden to be
in waiting at eight o'clock punctually, and
there they were at eight o'clock with writing
materials all ready. Coram came down with
secret glee.

"You are to go up-stairs, gentlemen, I
hear Mr. Gringe stirring in his room. Please
to walk up."

Old Gringe, with face sharpened from
overnight into hatchet shape, peered out at
them from the half-opened door.

"Who are there?" he said, in a prying,
inquisitive way. "O! I know now. Walk
in. Be seated. Everything is very comfortable,
as you see."

They walked in, and got out their papers.

"Glad to see you looking so well," Scrivendish
said, not regarding much the truth of
his speech.

"We had a death in the house last night,
sir," Gringe went on; "an old poodle dog,
sir. A very sad thing. He is to be interred
to-morrow with every respect."

Scrivendish looked at his clerk.

"You wished your will, sir, to be drawn?"

"So I did," said Gringe; "are you ready?"

"Quite," said the other.

"Just wait a second," said Gringe, going
over to the bed; "we must do these things
in the regular way—according to law."

And he put on a paper cocked-hat, and