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.