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 "I want my shawl, sir."

Her meekness exasperated him beyond endurance.

"Where is your shawl?"

"I think, sir, it might be under the bed."

Her hand was already stretched towards the curtain. Northcote was standing against his writing-*table, and near his elbow was the leaden paper-weight which he used for the destruction of rats. He took it in his hand and poised it in a fashion that would enable him to hurl it with all his force at the back of the old woman's head.

For some occult reason she withdrew her hand from the curtain, and retired without pulling it back.

"Of course I remember now," she said. "I lent my shawl to Mary Parker while the snow was about. I have such a bad memory," she added plaintively.

"There is one little errand I should like you to do for me," said Northcote, looking at her calmly. "Do you mind fetching me a gallon of paraffin? You can get it at an oilman's or an ironmonger's. I am going to try a new kind of fire."

He handed her half a crown.

"Very good, sir," said the old woman.

As he listened to her descending the stairs with little toddling steps, he balanced the paper-weight thoughtfully in the palm of his hand.

"Those five grandchildren will never come much nearer to the workhouse, you perverse old woman," he said with a whimsical laugh.

He had already formed his plan, and like all subtle minds which yearn for a finality which they so seldom obtain, the definiteness of its nature en