occasion believed that he had entered her dressing-
room, and bitterly upbraided her with failing
to send aid to him in the deadly scuffle in which
his life was taken (such was her incoherent
fancy), and also with employing insufficient
means for the detection of his murderers. It
was in vain to combat these hallucinations, in
which she was at last permitted to indulge.
Before the expiration of a twelvemonth from
the fatal day, the poor woman had sunk into a
state which admitted no hope of amendment.

The change that had come over Polly-my-Lamb
was, though widely different, scarcely less
remarkable. Those months of feverish anxiety
had dealt with her as might an unnaturally fervid
atmosphere with blossoms of another kind, and
led her to a forced maturity. Gone, gone for
ever, was the merry, saucy little romp, whose
whole existence was like a continual dance; from
whose sweet face sleep itself could scarcely chase
away the smile; whose small feet, decorated with
the well-known frilled pantaloons, came twinkling
down the street, sending thrills of delight and
jealousy to the hearts of the susceptible youth-
hood of the precinct, whose idol and empress
slie had been. In place of her, there sat beside
the mother's bed, a calm, stern, self-reliant,
jealous-judging little woman.

Between Polly-my-Lamb and her kind papa
there had existed a degree of attachment rarely
witnessed even in that dear relationship. Except
in those hours when the elder playfellow was
immersed in business, the two were seldom seen
apart, and it is certain that the merchant would
have grudged even that necessary interval of
separation from his darling, had it not been
devoted to the work of building up for her a
fortune it was his intention to render, according
to the estimate of that time—colossal.

That kind of amazement with which youth
receives the first buffet in the battle of life, like
a wound that stuns, came mercifully to deaden
the actual smart of the child's wound at first.
Poor little Polly-my-Lamb could not at all
realise the fact that her father was gone. Her
heart seemed to grope round in a bewildered way,
seeking something that was missing from its daily
sensible existence. Then, after a little time,
the child rallied her reasoning powers, a process
no doubt accelerated by the necessity of attending
much to her mother, whose grief, loud and
incessant, importuned all within its reach.
Strength is gained by helping the weak. The
child then began to reflect, and to be strong.
Bitter as was her grief, and deep the wound
that was galled and irritated by every sound and
object the household circle supplied, the sentiments
of rage and revenge were entirely dominant.
Polly-my-Lamb would have marched to the fiery
stake (women did so, in her day, for counterfeiting
crown pieces in pewter), if she could
by no other means have included in that torture
the assassins of her father.

Before the close of the year, a second victim
was borne from the mansion of the Three Elms.
Mrs. Humpage yielded up her life and sorrows,
and was laid to rest in the neighbouring vaults of
Saint James the Martyr.

CHAPTER II.

So poor Polly-my-Lamb was left in the rich
desolate house alone. Neither of her parents
possessed any near relations. As for friends,
the wayward child repelled every attempt to
comfort her, every offer to bear her company, in
her affliction.

Two visitors only, after a short time, were
admitted, Mr. Bellamy, the family solicitor, and
Sir James Polhill, the chief magistrate. The
former laid before her her father's will, in which
he had bequeathed one half of his large fortune
to his wife, with remainder to his daughter, the
other moiety to trustees, for the benefit of the
latter iintil her marriage or coming of age. Thus
the whole property, producing, in those days,
nearly six thousand pounds income, seemed
likely to centre absolutely in the young mistress,
now just fifteen, of the house of Three Elms.
Sir James could with difficulty repress a start,
so complete a transformation had the last two
or three months effected in the appearance and
demeanour of his young friend. He had come to
visit the little thing, as on former occasions, in a
sort of caressing, comforting, head-patting way,
and here was a young woman, with set features
and chill blue eyes, waving him to a somewhat
distant seat, and awaiting with polite frigidity
the explanation of his visit.

Sir James found himself stammering words of
common-place condolence, and general offers of
service, and was scarcely astonished when she
cut him short:

"You can neither help nor comfort me, sir,
nor can you even recompense me for this intr——"
(His benevolent look stopped her as though he
had held up a warning hand)— "interruption of
the grief I prefer to indulge in privacy, except in
one way. Tell me that the law has overtaken
the—murderers."

A deadly paleness overspread her face as she
ground the last word, almost inaudible, between
her set teeth.

"Such tidings, my dear young lady, we hope
shortly—"

"I know, I know!" burst in the child,
clutching her fingers together, and beating them
impatiently against her bosom. "Always the
same, always the same!"

"We—we have done our utmost," replied Sir
James, rising.

"I am glad to hear you say so," was the
unexpected answer. "It is time, then, that
others began."

"My dear?"

"It can never be meant that this wicked
murder should go unpunished, even in a world
that cannot, as it seems, administer the laws it
makes. I know that it is to be found out, and it
shall—yes, it shall," she added, her eyes wide
open, and gleaming like a sibyl's. " If you can