seems to be excluded by the very instincts of his nature. The question may be answered by the evolution of facts; than which what other have we even amidst the dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful being? Mrs. Hislop's head was over the skeil, wherein lay one of the linen sheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to the signet, which, with her broad hands, she was busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no doubt there were indications of her efforts in the drops of perspiration which stood upon her good-humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops ('bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blush peony. In this work she was interrupted by the entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if under the influence of some emotion which had taken her young heart by surprise. "What think ye, minny?" she cried, as she held up her hands. "The deil has risen again from the grave where he was buried in Kirkcaldy," was the reply, with a laugh. "No, that's no it," continued the girl. "Then what is it?" was the question. "He's dead," replied Henney. "Who is dead?" again asked Mrs. Hislop. "The strange man," replied the girl. And a reply, too, which brought the busy worker to a pause in her work, for she understood who the _he_ was, and the information went direct through the ear to the heart; but Henney, supposing that she was not understood, added-- "The man who used to look at me with yon terrible eyes." "Yes, yes, dear, I understand you," said the woman, as she let the coil fall, and sat down upon a chair, under the influence of strong emotion. "But who told you?" "Jean Graham," replied the girl.