His housekeeper heard his harsh voice barking down the passage at her, and rising with a start from her seat, cried,

‘At your service, Sir.’

’At a quarter to twelve o’clock fetch me a sandwich, and a glass of absynthe, and meanwhile, don’t disturb me.’

And she heard him enter his little parlour, and shut the door.

’There’s something to vex, but nothing to threaten—­nothing.  It’s all that comical dream—­curse it!  What tricks the brain plays us!  ’Tis fair it should though.  We work it while we please, and it plays when it may.  The slave has his saturnalia, and flouts his tyrant.  Ha, ha! ’tis time these follies were ended.  I’ve something to do to-night.’

So Mr. Dangerfield became himself again, and applied himself keenly to his business.

When I first thought of framing the materials which had accumulated in my hands into a narrative, dear little Lily Walsingham’s death was a sore trouble to me.  ‘Little’ Lily I call her, but though slight, she was not little—­rather tall, indeed.

It was, however, the term I always heard connected with her pretty name in my boyhood, when the old people, who had remembered her very long ago, mentioned her, as they used, very kindly, a term of endearment that had belonged to her, and in virtue of the childlike charm that was about her, had grown up with her from childhood.  I had plans for mending this part of the record, and marrying her to handsome Captain Devereux, and making him worthy of her; but somehow I could not.  From very early times I had known the sad story.  I had heard her beauty talked about in my childhood; the rich, clear tints, the delicate outlines, those tender and pleasant dimples, like the wimpling of a well; an image so pure, and merry, and melancholy withal, had grown before me, and in twilight shadows visited the now lonely haunts of her brief hours; even the old church, in my evening rambles along the uplands of the park, had in my eyes so saddened a grace in the knowledge that those slender bones lay beneath its shadows, and all about her was so linked in my mind with truth, and melancholy, and altogether so sacred, that I could not trifle with the story, and felt, even when I imagined it, a pang, and a reproach, as if I had mocked the sadness of little Lily’s fate; so, after some ponderings and trouble of mind I gave it up, and quite renounced the thought.

And, after all, what difference should it make?  Is not the generation among whom her girlish lot was cast long passed away?  A few years more or less of life.  What of them now?  When honest Dan Loftus cited those lines from the ‘Song of Songs,’ did he not make her sweet epitaph?  Had she married Captain Devereux, what would her lot have been?  She was not one of those potent and stoical spirits, who can survive the wreck of their best affections, and retort injury with scorn.  In forming that simple spirit, Nature had forgotten arrogance and wrath.