not come within that charmed circle which contains, according to the poets, so many angels without wings, she was probably as fair every whit as Dowsabell.  Yet, after all, we are not here concerned with beauty, which, as a specialty in one to one, and as a universality in all to all, is beyond the power of written description.  We have here to do simply with some traits which, being hereditary, not derived from Mrs. Hislop, have a bearing upon our strange legend:  the very slightest cast in the eyes, which in its piquancy belied a fine genial nature in the said Henney; and a classic nose, which, partaking of the old Roman type, and indicating pride, was equally untrue to a generosity of feeling which made friends of all who saw her—­except one.  A strange exception this one; for who, even in this bad world, could be an enemy to a creature who conciliated sympathy as a love, and defied antipathy as an impossibility?  Who could he be? or rather, who could she be? for man seems to be excluded by the very instincts of his nature.  The question may be answered by the evolution of facts; than which what other have we even amidst the dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful being?

Mrs. Hislop’s head was over the skeil, wherein lay one of the linen sheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to the signet, which, with her broad hands, she was busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no doubt there were indications of her efforts in the drops of perspiration which stood upon her good-humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops (’bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blush peony.  In this work she was interrupted by the entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if under the influence of some emotion which had taken her young heart by surprise.

“What think ye, minny?” she cried, as she held up her hands.

“The deil has risen again from the grave where he was buried in Kirkcaldy,” was the reply, with a laugh.

“No, that’s no it,” continued the girl.

“Then what is it?” was the question.

“He’s dead,” replied Henney.

“Who is dead?” again asked Mrs. Hislop.

“The strange man,” replied the girl.

And a reply, too, which brought the busy worker to a pause in her work, for she understood who the he was, and the information went direct through the ear to the heart; but Henney, supposing that she was not understood, added—­

“The man who used to look at me with yon terrible eyes.”

“Yes, yes, dear, I understand you,” said the woman, as she let the coil fall, and sat down upon a chair, under the influence of strong emotion.  “But who told you?”

“Jean Graham,” replied the girl.