October mornings, the mean cab comes up to
the door again, and all the tawny papers in
the matter are put in, under the seat, over
the seat; the boxes outside with coachman,
all to a reviling tune from the threadbare
gentlemen, who swear that they have been
used scurvily. So drives off the mean cab;
and, with it, hope, peace, happiness. Rather
has driven up with it, Despair, and another
gentleman named Felo-de-se or Suicide, both
sitting together inside.

Martha Daxe from the window of the
chief justice's room (for she had moved
down to that apartment long since) had seen
that arrival and departure. For that matter,
she had known what was coming for a long
while back; but had kept her rage (this time
real and unaffected) bottled down close, until
this day. She had all along fancied that
something might have come of the great suit:
that it would have brought money clinking
in upon those other moneys lying in the iron-
bound, crammed coffers. How she raved and
lashed herself as she walked to and fro in the
chief justice's room. "He shall go into the
streets. He shall. I'll fatten no paupers.
He may go to his own workhouse or hospital
—anywhere out of this; the idle, profitless
fool!"

So, towards five o'clock on that evening, she
came tramping down to the dun room to have it
all out, and to vent her bottled-up fury. There
was a terrible storm and contention! Fiercest
wrangle! For the overworked, now grown
defiant and desperate, bearded the old reviler
openly. There was word for word, epithet for
epithet: strife most unseeming. The door
was open wide, the sounds floated out
into the hall and up the well-staircase to
where Prue and Conalore were listening,
each at her own door. Gaunt Alibone was
listening too, standing cautiously at the dark
end of the hall. Great scandal for all the
house. But he must tramp. That was the
end of it. He may rot in the street if he like;
but must turn out. Blind beggar, she called
him. Beg he should, and that from
tomorrow morning.

Now it had come to the darkness of night,
and dark it was to the poor pauper sitting
lonelily in the dun chamber, and thinking
what was to become of him. The gentleman,
Felo-de-se, who had called in the morning, and
was not yet gone away, importuned him
sadly. But to no purpose. Still, despair has
a clutch upon his heart, and is working
wearily at his brain. For there is disappointment,
a blighting of those certain hopes, with
such comforts to keep him company. Famous
company they are, and are sitting with him
even when the sonorous bell of the old hall-
clock chimes out eleven and three-quarters.

By this hour Martha Daxe is fast asleep in
the chief justice's room, with those ancient
coffers filled up to their lids with money, and
double-locked down; the keys under her
pillow.

VI.

THE well-staircase is dark enough, but not
so dark to one who knows the way, the old
clock-bell just then chiming midnight. Who
should be on the well-staircase at that hour,
stepping softly past the chief justice's room,
but such as had fitting business, or were
troubled in mind concerning the state of near
relations? Ancient ladies, well stricken in
years, bearing infirmities, are subject to
Heaven knows what sudden ills and paralytic
turns. A sharp cry for aid at dead of night
might well reach through the thick floors
and panellings of the old house down to the
dun room, and bring up whomsoever was
keeping vigil there. Yet folk cry out often
in their sleep.

As he was coming forth softly from the
chief justice's chamber, he came suddenly
on Prue, shading a candle with her hand.
She startled him exceedingly; and no
wonder.

"Did you not hear anything?" she asked.

"It was nothing," he whispered. "Nothing
in the world. She is sleeping soundly. Don't
go in, or you will disturb her. Good night."

He was going down when she stopped
him; laying her candle on the broad balustrade.

"Let us talk a moment. So, you are going
to-morrow: turned out of doors. O, that I
could go too! for I am sick of her. Let me
go with you. I can be your scribe: your
handmaiden—anything!"

"What folly you talk," he said, roughly.
"I must go out by myself: go where no one
shall think of me. I want no scribes nor
handmaidens. Let me pass!" and he stole
down again to his dun chamber. She looked
after him in astonishment.

"Cold-hearted wretch! " she said to herself.
"Let him get stone-blind, for all it is to
me. But what can have put him in this
mood to-night?"

She thought for a moment: then she went
up-stairs, still conning it over to herself. At
her own door she put out the light; and,
taking off her slippers, stole down again
cautiously to the door of the chief justice's
room. There she listened.

VII.

MRS. MARTHA DAXE was old; and, from
her habit of body, might have been clearly set
down as a fit subject for apoplexy. That was
the way in which the neighbouring apothecary
accounted for it. Got a fit in the night,
and died without a struggle. There was the
whole of it. The thing occurs every day.
And so, sir, there is your fee; and let us
have the funeral over as soon as decency will
permit.

Prue told Lyttleton she must speak with
him privately. She did so. She had a
queer smile on her face, as she closed the door
after her. No begging now, to be allowed to