“The more trouble befalls you, the nearer is God to you.  He visits you in sorrow—­and sorrow, as well as joy, is a sign of his presence.  If, then, other griefs overtake you, remember this—­be patient, be faithful; and bless the name of God.”

I returned home comforted and happy, although I felt assured that some further and sadder trial was before me.

Still our household was overcast by the same insurmountable dread of our tenant.  The same strange habits characterised him, and the same unaccountable sounds disquieted us—­an atmosphere of death and malice hovered about his door, and we all hated and feared to pass it.

Let me now tell, as well and briefly as I may, the dreadful circumstances of my last great trial.  One morning, my wife being about her household affairs, and I on the point of starting for town, I went into the parlour for some letters which I was to take with me.  I cannot easily describe my consternation when, on entering the room, I saw our lodger seated near the window, with our darling little girl upon his knee.

His back was toward the door, but I could plainly perceive that the respirator had been removed from his mouth, and that the odious green goggles were raised.  He was sitting, as it seemed, absolutely without motion, and his face was advanced close to that of the child.

I stood looking at this group in a state of stupor for some seconds.  He was, I suppose, conscious of my presence, for although he did not turn his head, or otherwise take any note of my arrival, he readjusted the muffler which usually covered his mouth, and lowered the clumsy spectacles to their proper place.

The child was sitting upon his knee as motionless as he himself, with a countenance white and rigid as that of a corpse, and from which every trace of meaning, except some vague character of terror, had fled, and staring with a fixed and dilated gaze into his face.

As it seemed, she did not perceive my presence.  Her eyes were transfixed and fascinated.  She did not even seem to me to breathe.  Horror and anguish at last overcame my stupefaction.

“What—­what is it?” I cried; “what ails my child, my darling child?”

“I’d be glad to know, myself,” he replied, coolly; “it is certainly something very queer.”

“What is it, darling?” I repeated, frantically, addressing the child.

“What is it?” he reiterated.  “Why it’s pretty plain, I should suppose, that the child is ill.”

“Oh merciful God!” I cried, half furious, half terrified—­“You have injured her—­you have terrified her.  Give me my child—­give her to me.”

These words I absolutely shouted, and stamped upon the floor in my horrid excitement.

“Pooh, pooh!” he said, with a sort of ugly sneer; “the child is nervous—­you’ll make her more so—­be quiet and she’ll probably find her tongue presently.  I have had her on my knee some minutes, but the sweet bird could not tell what ails her.”