The tone of the girl's voice inspired horror, that fear that does not know what it is it fears; one could see it on every face; on every face, that is, but the face of the bald-headed little man; there was no horror on his face; he was smiling serenely as he looked the girl straight in the eyes. "He's a man now," he said. "Alive?" she cried. "Why not?" said the little old man, rubbing his hands together. She tried to rise, but her frock had got caught between the chairs and pulled her to her seat again. The man next her put out his hand to steady her, but she dashed it away roughly. She looked round the party for an instant for all the world like an animal at bay, then she sprang to her feet and charged blindly. They crowded round her to prevent her falling; at the touch of their hands she stopped. She was out of breath as though she had been running. "All right," she said, pushing their hands from her. "All right. I'll come quietly. I did it." They caught her as she fell and laid her on the sofa watching the color fade from her face. The hostess, an old woman with white hair and a kind face, approached the little old man; for once in her life she was roused to anger. "I can't think how you could be so stupid," she said. "See what you have done." "I did it for a purpose," he said. "For a purpose?" "I have always thought that girl was the culprit. I have to thank you for the opportunity you have given me of making sure." THE CLAVECIN, BRUGES[4] BY GEORGE WHARTON EDWARDS [Footnote 4: By permission of The Century Co.] A silent, grass-grown market-place, upon the uneven stones of which the sabots of a passing peasant clatter loudly. A group of sleepy-looking soldiers in red trousers lolling about the wide portal of the Belfry, which rears aloft against the pearly sky All the height it has Of ancient stone. As the chime ceases there lingers for a space a faint musical hum in the air; the stones seem to carry and retain the melody; one is loath to move for fear of losing some part of the harmony. I feel an indescribable impulse to climb the four hundred odd steps; incomprehensible, for I detest steeple-climbing, and have no patience with steeple-climbers. Before I realize it, I am at the stairs. "Hold, sir!" from behind me. "It is forbidden." In wretched French a weazen-faced little soldier explains that repairs are about to be made in the tower, in consequence of which visitors are forbidden. A franc removes this military obstacle, and I press on. At the top of the stairs is an old Flemish woman shelling peas, while over her shoulder peeps a tame magpie. A savory odor of stewing vegetables fills the air. "What do you wish, sir?" Many shrugs, gesticulations, and sighs of objurgation, which are covered by a shining new five-franc piece, and she produces a bunch of keys. As the door closes upon me the magpie gives a hoarse, gleeful squawk.