MURDER.


HE had waked her!

In an instant the angel form of Mercy melted away--and there stood the
devil with his arms folded.

"Murder!--fire!--rape!--thieves!--what, Nephew Jennings, is that you,
with all my honey pots? Help! help! help!"

"Phew-w-w!" whistled the devil: "I tell you what, Master Simon, you must
quiet the old woman, she bellows like a bull, the house'll be about your
ears in a twinkling--she'll hang you for this!"

Yes--he must quiet her--the game was up; he threatened, he implored, but
she would shriek on; she slept alone on the ground-floor, and knew she
must roar loudly to be heard above the drawing-rooms; she would not be
quieted--she would shriek--and she did. What must he do? she'll raise
the house!--Stop her mouth, stop her mouth, I say, can't you?--No, she's
a powerful, stout, heavy woman, and he cannot hold her: ha! she has
bitten his finger to the bone, like a very tigress! look at the blood!

"Why can't you touch her throat; no teeth there, bless you! that's the
way the wind comes: bravo! grasp it--tighter! tighter! tighter!"

She struggled, and writhed, and wrestled, and fought--but all was
strangling silence; they rolled about the floor together, tumbled on the
bed, scuffled round the room, but all in horrid silence; neither uttered
a sound, neither had a shoe on--but all was earnest, wicked,