road a little beyond the hat, that heap with all its outlines already blurred by snow, that heap must be the baronet himself!

   Oh, but this was vengeance, swift, deadly vengeance!

   But how, but how had she wreaked it?

    She

   , already my heart whispered

    she!

   Was my peerless Philippa then a murderess?

   Oh, say not so; call hers (ye would do so an she had been an Irish felon) 'the wild justice of revenge,' or the speedy execution of the outraged creditor.

   Killed by Philippa!

   Yes, and why? The answer was only too obvious. She must have gone forth to meet him, and to wring from him, by what means she might, that quarter's salary which the dastard had left unpaid. Then my thoughts flew to the door-key, the cause of that fierce family hatred which burned between Philippa and her betrayer. That latch-key she had wrested from him, it had fallen from her hand, and I—I had pitched it into space!

   Overcome with emotion, I staggered in the direction of the 'pike. All the way, in the blinding, whirling snow, I traced the unobliterated prints of a small fairy foot.

   This was a dreary comfort! Philippa had gone before me; the prints of the one small foot were hers. She must, then, have hopped all the way! Could such a mode of progression be consistent with a feeling of guilt? Could remorse step so gaily?

   My man William, the Sphynx, opened the door to me. Assuming a natural air, I observed:—

   'Miss South is at home?'

   'Yes, sir. Just come in, sir.'

   'Where is she now?'

   'Well, sir, she just is on the rampage. "I'll make 'is fur fly," she up and sez, sez she, when she heard as you was hout. Not a nice young lady for a small tea-party, sir,' he added, lowering his voice; 'a regular out-and-outer your sister is, to be sure.'

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