to hear so favourable and so ingenious an account of my Cousin Clifford," said the benevolent judge. "It is possible that you have never heard of Clifford Pyncheon, and know nothing of his history. But is Clifford in the parlour? I will just step in and see him. There is no need to announce me. I know the house, and know my Cousin Hepzibah, and her brother Clifford likewise. Ah, there is Hepzibah herself!" Such was the case. The vibrations of the judge's voice had reached the old gentlewoman in the parlour, where Clifford sat slumbering in his chair. "He cannot see you," said Hepzibah, with quivering voice. "He cannot see visitors." "A visitor--do you call me so?" cried the judge. "Then let me be Clifford's host, and your own likewise. Come at once to my house. I have often invited you before. Come, and we will labour together to make Clifford happy." "Clifford has a home here," she answered. "Woman," broke out the judge, "what is the meaning of all this? Have you other resources? Take care, Hepzibah, take care! Clifford is on the brink of as black a ruin as ever befel him yet!" From within the parlour sounded a tremulous, wailing voice, indicating helpless alarm. "Hepzibah!" cried the voice. "Entreat him not to come in. Go down on your knees to him. Oh, let him have mercy on me! Mercy!" The judge withdrew, and Hepzibah, deathly white, staggered towards Phoebe. "That man has been the horror of my life," she murmured. "Shall I never have courage enough to tell him what he is?" IV.--The Spell is Broken The shop thrived under Phoebe's management, and the acquaintance with Mr. Holgrave ripened into friendship. Then, after some weeks, Phoebe went away on a temporary visit to her mother, and the old house, which had been brightened by her presence, was once more dark and gloomy. It was during this absence of Phoebe's that Judge Pyncheon once more called and demanded to see Clifford. "You cannot see him," answered Hepzibah. "Clifford has kept his bed since yesterday." "What! Clifford ill!" said the judge,
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