The author's last work, published posthumously.
ter deliberately from his great-coat pocket--"and tore it, this way and that way, across and across," and he suited the action fiercely to the words, "and left it for him, there!"
So saying, he slapped down the pieces with his big hand, and made our tea-spoons jump and jingle in our cups, and turned and strode again to the door.
"And tell him this," he added, in a tone of calmer hatred, turning his awful face on us again, "that there's a God above us, who judges righteously."
The door shut, and we saw him no more. I and my sister burst into clamorous tears, and roared and cried for a full half hour, from sheer fright--a demonstration which, for a time, gave Rebecca Torkill ample occupation for all her energies and adroitness.
This recollection remains, with all the colouring and exaggeration of a horrible impression received in childhood, fixed in my imagination. I and dear Nelly long remembered the apparition, and in our plays used to call him, after the goblin hero of the romance
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