The Carrier accompanied him, without another word. They went
across a yard, where the stars were shining, and by a little side-
door, into Tackleton's own counting-house, where there was a glass
window, commanding the ware-room, which was closed for the night.
There was no light in the counting-house itself, but there were
lamps in the long narrow ware-room; and consequently the window was
bright.

'A moment!' said Tackleton. 'Can you bear to look through that
window, do you think?'

'Why not?' returned the Carrier.

'A moment more,' said Tackleton. 'Don't commit any violence. It's
of no use. It's dangerous too. You're a strong-made man; and you
might do murder before you know it.'

The Carrier looked him in the face, and recoiled a step as if he
had been struck. In one stride he was at the window, and he saw -

Oh Shadow on the Hearth! Oh truthful Cricket! Oh perfidious Wife!

He saw her, with the old man--old no longer, but erect and gallant-
-bearing in his hand the false white hair that had won his way into
their desolate and miserable home. He saw her listening to him, as
he bent his head to whisper in her ear; and suffering him to clasp
her round the waist, as they moved slowly down the dim wooden
gallery towards the door by which they had entered it. He saw them
stop, and saw her turn--to have the face, the face he loved so, so