“The maid!” he cried.  “She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there is now before you one more difficult passage.  Her master, you must say, is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious countenance; no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success!  Once the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in your path.  Thenceforward you have the whole evening—­the whole night, if needful—­to ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your safety.  This is help that comes to you with the mask of danger.  Up!” he cried; “up, friend.  Your life hangs trembling in the scales; up, and act!”

Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor.  “If I be condemned to evil acts,” he said, “there is still one door of freedom open:  I can cease from action.  If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down.  Though I be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by one decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all.  My love of good is damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be!  But I have still my hatred of evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall see that I can draw both energy and courage.”

The features of the visitor began to undergo a wonderful and lovely change:  they brightened and softened with a tender triumph, and, even as they brightened, faded and dislimned.  But Markheim did not pause to watch or understand the transformation.  He opened the door and went downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself.  His past went soberly before him; he beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random as chance medley—­a scene of defeat.  Life, as he thus reviewed it, tempted him no longer; but on the further side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark.  He paused in the passage, and looked into the shop, where the candle still burned by the dead body.  It was strangely silent.  Thoughts of the dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing.  And then the bell once more broke out into impatient clamour.

He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile.

“You had better go for the police,” said he; “I have killed your master.”

QUEEN TITA’S WAGER, by William Black

I—­FRANZISKA FAHLER

It is a Christmas morning in Surrey—­cold, still and gray, with a frail glimmer of sunshine coming through the bare trees to melt the hoar-frost on the lawn.  The postman has just gone out, swinging the gate behind him.  A fire burns brightly in the breakfast-room; and there is silence about the house, for the children have gone off to climb Box Hill before being marched to church.

The small and gentle lady who presides over the household walks sedately in, and lifts the solitary letter that is lying on her plate.  About three seconds suffice to let her run through its contents, and then she suddenly cries: