BY the beginning of April, the Macalpines were finally settled; the majority of them being employed as laborers on Mr. Ferguson’s farms of Loelyin and Lochend. Roderick and his family occupied a cottage in the vicinity of the Tower. He was engaged as ploughman by Mrs. Catherine Douglas. Big Duncan remained with his people—their houses were now far apart—they were restless and ill at ease, feeling their dispersion as the Jews of old felt their captivity. These clinging local attachments are comparatively little known to people confined within the limits of cities, and living in the hired houses, which any caprice or revolution of fortune may make them change. It is not so with the “dwellers of the hills,” the whole circuit of whose simple lives for generations have passed under one roof; to whom the sun has risen and set behind the same majestic hills in daily glory, and whose native streamlet has a house-hold tongue, as familiar as the more articulate one of nearest kindred. A hope had sprung up in the breast of the Macalpines—a hope to which their yearning home-love gave vivid strength and power. Their chief would return: he would come back in renewed wealth and prosperity: he would lead them back to their own homes in triumph. This anticipation enlivened the sad pilgrimages, which the banished hillfolk made on those dewy spring evenings to their beloved glen. It needed some such hope to stifle the indignant grief and anger, which might have else blazed up in illegal vehemence, when the ejected Macalpines, in little parties of two and three, returned to Oranmore, to look upon their former homes, now desolate and blackened, with grass springing up on each household floor, and waving already from the broken walls—but they looked away, where, far over the wide-spreading low-country, there shone in the distance, the glimmer of the great sea; and prayed, in the fervor of their hope and yearning, for the home-coming of their chief. God speed the adventurer, landing even now on the sunny shores of the new world! How many hearts beat high with prayers and hopes for his return!

The sick lad, Kenneth, did not die: he lived to hold the name of the youthful Giles Sympelton in dearest honor and reverence, and to do him leal service in an after-time. Giles, with some reluctance, left the Tower, after a week’s residence there, to join his father—leaving Ada Coulter with the first sadness upon her, which she had experienced since her happy release from school.

In the middle of April, Anne set out upon her journey. With Mrs. Catherine’s full consent, Jacky was to accompany her. Anne’s departure excited some attention. There seemed to be a vague conception among the neighbors, that something of moment was concealed under this quiet visit to the south, of the very quiet Miss Ross, of Merkland. Jeanie Coulter wondered if she was going to be married. Mrs. Coulter endeavored to recollect if she had ever heard of the Rosses having relations in that quarter. Mr. Foreman said nothing, but, with that keen lawyer eye of his, darted into the secret errand at once, and already sympathized with the failure and disappointment, which he felt sure would follow.

Anne’s farewells were over—all but one—the day before leaving Merkland, she went up to the mill to say good-by to little Lilie. She found Mrs. Melder in ecstasies of wonder and admiration, holding up her hands, and crying, “Bless me!” as she unfolded one by one the contents of a box which stood upon the table. They consisted of little garments beautifully made—a profusion of them. Lilie herself was luxuriating over a splendid picture-book, after viewing with a burst of childish delight the pretty little silk frock which Mrs. Melder, in the pride of her heart, was already thinking would make so great a sensation when it appeared first in their seat in the front gallery (alias the mid loft) of Portoran kirk. Nothing less than a mother’s hand could have packed that wonderful box; its gay little muslin frocks, which Mrs. Melder “had never seen the like of, for fineness,” its inner garments of beautiful linen, its bright silken sashes, its story books, resplendent in their gilded bindings, its parcels of sweetmeats and toys. Mrs. Melder was overwhelmed—the grandeur and wealth of her little charge fairly took away her breath.

“And now when she’s won to an easier speech, Miss Anne,” said the good woman aside. “She calls me nurse—what think ye! it’s a wonderful bairn—and ye’ll hear her say lang words sometimes, that I’m sure she never learned frae me; it’s my thought, Miss Anne, that the bairn kent the English tongue afore she came here, and had either forgotten’t, or—atweel ane disna ken what to think; but this while she’s ta’en to speaking about her mamma. It’s a wonder to me that ony mother could hae the heart to part wi’ her.”

“See,” cried Lilie, springing to Anne’s side, “look what bonnie things,” and she precipitated a shoal of little books upon Anne’s knee.

“They are very pretty, Lilie,” said Anne. “Who sent you all these?”

The child looked at her gravely. “It would be mamma—it was sure to be mamma.”

“Where is mamma?” asked Anne.

“Far away yonder—over the big water—but she aye minds Lilie.”

“And why did you come away from mamma, Lilie?” said Anne.

The child began to cry. “Lilie ill, ill—like to die. Oh! if you had seen my mamma greeting.” And throwing herself down on the ground, Lilie fell into one of her passionate bursts of grief.

“But yon wasna your mamma that brought ye here, my lamb?” said Mrs. Melder.

Lilie continued to weep—too bitterly to give any answer.

Anne turned over the books—in the blank leaf of one of them a name was written in a boyish hand—”Lilia Santa Clara.” By-and-by the child’s grief moderated, and, taking up her books again, she ran to the mill to show them to Robert.

“Lilia Santa Clara,” it gave no clue to the child’s origin.

“Haill three names!” said Mrs. Melder, “if ane only kent what her father’s name was; the leddy that brought her here said only ‘Lilias,’ and I dinna mind if I askit the last ane in my flutter—and bonnie outlandish names they are; ‘Lilia Santa Clara’—to think of a wean wi’ a’ thae grand names putting Melder at the hinder end!—it’s out of the question.”

“Santa Clara may be the surname, Mrs. Melder,” said Anne, smiling at the conjunction.

“Eh! think ye so, Miss Anne? I never heard of folk having first names for their surname; though to be sure they do ca’ the English flunky that has the confectionary shop in Portoran, Thomas. Well, it may be sae.”

“Does she call herself by this name?” asked Anne.

“Ay, I have heard the words mony a time; and sae far as I can guess, Miss Anne, she maun hae been sent to yon lady frae some foreign pairt. Eh, bless me! there maun be some shame and reproach past the common, afore they sent away a bairn like yon.”

Jacky Morison was in a state of intense and still excitement—the fire had reached a white heat before they left Merkland. Barbara Genty, Mrs. Ross’s favored maid, cast envious looks at her as she sat perched in the back seat of the gig, which was to convey them to Portoran. Old Esther Fleming, who stood without the gate to watch Miss Anne’s departure, regarded Jacky dubiously, as if doubting her fitness for her important post. Jacky rose heroically to the emergency. Her faithfulness, her discretion, her true and loyal service, should be beyond all question when they returned.

From her earliest recollection, Anne Ross had been Jacky’s pattern and presiding excellence, less awful and nearer herself than Mrs. Catherine—and of all kinds of disinterested and unselfish devotion, there are few so chivalrous as the enthusiastic and loving service of a girl, to the grown woman who condescends to notice and protect her.

When the coach arrived in Edinburgh, Anne saw from its window little Alice Aytoun’s fair face looking for her anxiously. James and Alice were waiting to take her home. Anne had purposed spending the short time she should remain in Edinburgh, in the house of an old companion and former schoolfellow; but Alice clung and pleaded, there was no denying her—so Anne suffered herself to be guided to Mrs. Aytoun’s quiet little house.

Mrs. Aytoun received her with grave kindness; the affectionate dependence which Alice had upon the stronger character of Anne, the good report which James had given of her, and even her present undertaking, out of the way and unusual though it was, had prepossessed Mrs. Aytoun in her favor. And Norman—the neglected wife remembered him too, so delicately kind, so generous, so reverent of her weakness long ago, when her husband and he were friends; and though she delivered no judgment in his favor, her heart yet went forth in full sympathy with the brave sister, who was so resolute in her belief of his innocence, so eager to labor for its proof. Mrs. Aytoun’s God-speed was music to the heart of Anne.

And Alice, very tremulously joyful, clung about her all night long—now sitting on the stool at her feet, her fair curls drooping on Anne’s knee—now leaning on her chair—now seated by her side, clasping her hand. James, too, with brotherly confidence and kindness, advised with her about her plans and future proceedings. Anne felt the atmosphere brighten. Surely these were good omens.

In the meantime, Jacky, we regret to say, had been suffering a good deal from disappointment; it was not from her first glimpse of Edinburgh, but it was from the house in Edinburgh, which was specially honored as being the dwelling of “Miss Alice.” Jacky had been struck with awe and admiration as she glanced at it from without. The great “land” looked very stately, and spacious, and commanding, though it did immediately front a street, and had neither grounds nor trees surrounding it—but when the immense house dwindled into a single flat, of which she could count all the rooms at a glance, Jacky felt the disappointment sadly. Then she was taken into the small bright kitchen, where Mrs. Aytoun’s stout woman-servant, the only domestic of the household, was preparing tea for the travellers. Jacky was scarcely prepared for this. It might have been difficult, we fancy, for many persons more experienced than Jacky, to ascertain what claim to respect or honor, a young Scottish lawyer, with very little practice as yet, whose house consisted of one flat only, and the wants of whose establishment one woman-servant could supply—could possibly have.

But James Aytoun had not only an excellent claim to respect and honor, but actually received it. It was not any empty pride either which led him to sign himself James Aytoun, of Aytoun. Had it not been for the reckless and extravagant father, whose debts had so hopelessly entangled his inheritance, the territorial designation would have represented many fair acres—a long-descended patrimony. As it was, with only a desolate mansion-house, in a southern county, and some bleak lands about it, James Aytoun, of Aytoun, was still received and honored as a gentleman of good family and blood—neither by descent, education, nor breeding beneath any family in Scotland.

It is but a narrow spirit which endeavors to sneer at a distinction like this, and call it the pride of poverty. James Aytoun belonged to that well-nurtured, manly class, whose hereditary honor and good fame belong to the nation, and whose frank dignity of mind and tone are as far removed as mental loftiness can be from that vulgar and arrogant thing, which mean men call pride.

Jacky was reconciling herself to the little Edinburgh kitchen, and had already entered into conversation with Tibbie, when little Bessie arrived from her mother’s humble house in an adjacent back street, to renew her acquaintance with her Strathoran friend.—Jacky had many messages to deliver from Johnnie Halflin, which Bessie received with a due amount of blushing laughter.

“And, Oh, Jacky! how will they ever do wanting you at the Tower?”

Jacky did not apprehend the covert wit—did not even perceive that the rosy little Edinburgh-bred girl, was about to condescend to, and patronise, the awkward rustic one.

“They’ll only miss me, for a while, at first—and then maybe, we’ll no be long.”

“Is’t Miss Ross that’s with you?” asked Bessie.

“I’m with Miss Ross,” said Jacky, quickly “Miss Anne chose me of her own will—after I askit her—and so did Miss Falconer.”

“Eh! isna she an awfu’ funny lady, yon Miss Falconer?”

“Funny!” Jacky was indignantly astonished. “I dinna ken what ye ca’ funny, Bessie. She’s like—”

“She’s no like ither folk,” said Bessie.

“It’s you that doesna ken. She’s like—”

“Wha is she like, Jacky?”

“She’s like Belphoebe,” muttered Jacky, hastily. “But ye dinna ken wha she was—and she’s a lady, for a’ that she does strange thing whiles.”

“Is that the lady that throosh the gentleman that was gaun to be uncivil to our Miss Alice?” interposed Tibbie.

“Yes,” said Bessie laughing. Little Bessie was not above the vanity of being thought to know these north country magnates.—”And on New-year’s night, when all the ladies were at the Tower, (ye mind, Jacky?) Miss Falconer gied me a shilling a’ to mysel, for bringing her napkin to her, that she had left in Miss Alice’s dressing-room—and nippit my lug, and tell’t me to take care o’ Miss Alice—she ca’ed her my little mistress. Isna she an awful height herself?”

“She’s no so tall as Mrs. Catherine,” said Jacky.

“Eh, Jacky! Miss Alice didna come up to her shouther, and she’s a haill head higher than Miss Ross.”

Jacky did not choose to answer: though why there should seem any slight to Marjory, in an exaggeration of her stature, we cannot tell. Without doubt, Belphoebe was to the full as tall as she.

“Do you ken that Merkland’s been in Edinburgh?” asked Bessie. In Strathoran she had called Lewis, Mr. Ross; now she was bent on impressing Tibbie with a deep sense of her own familiarity with these great people. “Eh, Jacky, do you mind what Johnnie Halflin used to say about Merkland?”

Jacky had a high sense of honor. She made an elfin face at her talkative companion, and remained prudently silent.

“What did he say?” asked Tibbie.

“Ou naithing. Jacky and me kens.”

“An he said onything ill, I redd him to keep out o’ the power o’ my ten talents. He’s a young blackguard, like maist feck of his kind, I’ll warrant—idle serving callants, wi’ nought to do in this world, but claver about their betters, wi’ light-headed gilpies, like yoursel. I wad just like to ken what he said!”

“It was naething ill,” said Jacky.

“Oh, he’ll be a lad to some o’ ye, nae doubt—set ye up! But I can tell ye, he had better no come here to say an ill word o’ young Mr. Ross.”

“Miss Anne’s Mr. Lewis’s sister,” said Jacky, decisively.—”Johnnie dauredna say a word ill o’ him—only that he was—”

Bessie laughed—she had no honorable scruples, but maliciously refrained from helping Jacky out.

“Only about Miss Alice and him.”

“Weel ye’re a queer lassie,” said Mrs. Aytoun’s maid. “Could ye no have tell’t me that at first?”

Bessie laughed again.

“And, Jacky, is the wee fairy lady aye at the Mill yet?”

“Wha’s that?” cried the curious Tibbie.

“Oh, it’s a wee bairn that the fairies sent to Strathoran. She was a’ dressed in green silk, and had wings like Miss Alice’s white veil, and was riding on a pony as white as snaw; and the miller’s wife took her in, and her wings took lowe at the fire, and she would have been a’ burned, if Miss Ross hadna saved her—and Johnnie Halflin saw her wi’ his ain e’en—and they say she’s some kin to Jacky.”

Jacky repelled the insult with immense disdain.

“If I had Johnnie Halflin here, I would douk him in the Oran.”

“Ye might douk him in the water o’ Leith, Jacky,” said Bessie, laughing; “but the Oran’s no here, mind.”

Jacky was indignantly silent.

“And wha is she?” inquired Tibbie.

“She’s a little girl,” said Jacky, with some dignity, “a very bonnie wee foreign lady; and Mrs. Melder keeps her at the Mill, and she speaks in a strange tongue, and sings sangs—low, sweet, floating sangs—ye never heard the like of them, and her name is Lilie.”

“Lilie what?”

“I dinna ken. She says her name is Lilia Santa Clara, but neabody kens whether that’s her last name or no.”

“Losh!” exclaimed Tibbie, “will she be canny, after a’?”

“Canny!—you should look nearer yoursel,” said Bessie, with laughing malice.

“Never heed her,” said Tibbie. “Sit into the table, and take your tea. She’s a light-headed fuil—and ye can tell Johnnie Halflin that frae me.”

“Is Miss Anne gaun to bide in Edinburgh?” inquired Bessie, as they seated themselves at Tibbie’s clean, small table.

“No—she’s gaun to the sea-side.”

“Eh, Jacky, where? we’ll come out and see ye.”

“I dinna mind the name of the place,” said Jacky, “but it’s on the sea-side.”

“And what’s Miss Anne gaun to do?”

Jacky paused to deliberate. “She’s no gaun to do onything.—She’s just gaun to please hersel.”

“Ay,” said the inquisitive Bessie, “but what is’t for?”

“It’s maybe for something good,” said Jacky, quickly, “for that’s aye Miss Anne’s way; but she wasna gaun to tell me.”

“But what do you think it is, Jacky?” persisted Bessie, “ane can aye gie a guess—is she gaun to be married?”

“No!” exclaimed Jacky indignantly, “Married! It’s because ye dinna ken Miss Anne.”

“Miss Anne’s just like ither folk,” was the laughing response; “and there’s nae ill in being married.”

“Lassie, there’ll be news o’ you, if you’re no a’ the better hadden in,” cried Tibbie. “Set ye up wi’ your lads and your marryings! Maybe the young lady’s delicate, or she’ll hae friends at the sea-side.”

To which more delicate fishing interrogatories, Jacky, who knew that Anne was neither delicate nor had any friend at the sea-side, prudently refrained from making any answer.

The next day, Anne, accompanied by Mrs. Aytoun and Alice, set out for Aberford on a search for lodgings. Mrs. Aytoun had a friend, a regular frequenter of all places of general resort, whose list of sea-bathing quarters was almost a perfect one, and fortified by the results of her experience, they departed upon their quest, leaving Jacky in Bessie’s care behind them, to dream at her leisure over that wonderful Edinburgh, whose stately olden beauty the strange girl, after her own fashion, could appreciate so well.

Anne observed, with regret and sympathy, the gloom of silence that fell over the kind mother by her side, as they approached their destination. She observed the long, sad glances thrown through the windows of the coach at the country road, known long ago, when Mrs. Aytoun was not a widow. There were no other passengers to restrain their conversation, and when they were very near the village, Mrs. Aytoun pointed to a house, surrounded with wood, and standing at a considerable distance from the road. “Yonder, Alice, look—you were born there.”

Alice looked eagerly out. “You liked this place better than Aytoun, mother? Aytoun must have been very gloomy always.”

“Aytoun was a larger house than we needed, Alice—you have heard me say so—and I was in very delicate health then. I was never well while—” your father lived, Mrs. Aytoun was about to say, but she checked herself hurriedly; not even in so slight a way would she reproach the dead.

The coach stopped—they were in the dull main street of the village. Mrs. Aytoun took out her list—at the head of the column stood “Mrs. Yammer”—the sea-bathing friend had particularly recommended the house, whose mistress bore so distressful a name. It was a short way out of the village, close upon the sea-side; they turned to seek it.

The magnificent Firth lay bright before them, its islands standing out darkly from its bosom, and its sunny glories bounded by the fertile shores and distant hills of the ancient kingdom of Fife. The exuberant wealth of these rich Lothian lands was bursting out around into Spring’s blythest green—a sunny April sky overhead, and April air waving in its golden breadths about them everywhere—it was impossible to think of sadness there. The shadow of her old woe floated away from Mrs. Aytoun’s unselfish spirit—Alice was so gay, Anne so pleasantly exhilarated, that she could not refuse to rejoice with them.

Mrs. Yammer’s house promised well. It was seated upon a gentle elevation—its front, at least, for the elevation made a very abrupt descent, and so procured that the rooms which were on the ground-floor before, should be the second story behind. In front ran the road leading to the country town, beyond there were some brief intervening fields, and then the sands. It was not above ten minutes walk from the immediate shore. At some little distance further on, there stood a house close to the water, standing up, gaunt and tall, from among a few trees. In the bright, living spring-day, it had a spectral, desolate look about it. Anne remarked it with some curiosity as she glanced round; but Mrs. Aytoun had already knocked, and she had not time to look again.

The door was opened by an energetic little servant, who ushered the ladies into an airy, lightsome parlor, with which Alice Aytoun was in ecstasies. One window looked out on the sea—the other, in a corner of the room, had a pleasant view of the fresh green country road, and glimpse of the village of Aberford itself in the distance; the furniture was very tolerable—the whole room particularly clean.

“O, Anne!” exclaimed Alice Aytoun, “I will come to see you every week!”

A little woman bustled into the room. She had on an old silk gown, curiously japanned by long service, and possessing in an uncommon degree the faculty of rustling—a comical, little, quick, merry, eccentric face—some curls which looked exceedingly like bits of twisted wire, covered by a clean cap of embroidered muslin, with a very plain border of well-darned lace. Mrs. Aytoun hesitated. To call this little person “Mrs.” anything, was palpably absurd; yet they had asked for Mrs. Yammer.

“It’s no me, it’s my sister,” said the brisk little person before them. “I’m Miss Crankie. Will ye sit down ladies? I am very glad to see you.”

Mrs. Aytoun sat down—little Alice concealed her laugh by looking steadfastly down the road, at the distant roofs of Aberford, and Anne took a chair beside her.

“Is’t no a grand prospect?” said Miss Crankie, “a’ the Firth before us, and the town at our right hand—a young lady that was here last simmer said to Tammie (that’s my sister, Mrs. Yammer, her name’s Thomasine—we call her Tammie for shortness,) ‘If it wasna for breaking the tenth command, I would covert ye your house, Mrs. Yammer,’—and so dry, and free from drafts, and every way guid for an invalid. It’s uncommonly weel likit.”

“It seems a very nice house,” said Mrs. Aytoun. “Are your rooms disengaged, Miss Crankie?”

“For what time was ye wanting them, Mem?” said Miss Crankie. “There’s young Mrs. Mavis is to be here in July, and Miss Todd was speaking of bringing ower her brother’s bairns in August—but I’m aye fond to oblige a lady—for what time was ye wanting them?”

“This young lady, Miss Ross”—Miss Crankie honored Anne with a queer nod and a smile, which very nearly upset the gravity of Alice, and put Anne’s own in jeopardy, “desires to have lodgings in the neighborhood for this month, and, perhaps, May.—What do you think, my dear? will you need them longer?”

“I hope not,” said Anne, “but still, it is possible I may.”

“Miss Ross requires change of air,” said Mrs. Aytoun, faltering and endeavoring to excuse her equivocation, by noticing that Anne did look pale.

“Of scene, rather,” said Anne, slightly affected by the same hesitation. It was true, however, if not in the usual sense.

Miss Crankie fixed her odd little black eye upon Anne, nodded, and looked as if she comprehended perfectly.

“Will you be able to accommodate Miss Ross and her servant, Miss Crankie?”

“That will I; there’s no better accommodation in the haill Lothians; and, for change of scene, what could heart desire better than that—ay, or that either, young Miss, which is as bonnie a country view (no to be the sea) as can be seen. Will ye look at the bed-room?”

Miss Crankie darted out, leading the way. Mrs. Aytoun, Anne, and Alice followed. The bed-room was immediately behind the parlor, resplendent in all the glory of white covers, and chintz curtains, and with an embowered window looking out upon “the green,” which was separated from the kitchen-garden by a thick hedge of sweet-briar. Alice was delighted, and Anne so perfectly satisfied, that Mrs. Aytoun made the bargain. The rooms were taken, together with a little den up stairs for Jacky. Miss Crankie faithfully promised in her own name and Mrs. Yammer’s, that the apartments should be ready for Anne’s reception next day; and when they had partaken of a frugal refreshment—some very peculiar wine of Miss Crankie’s own manufacture, and cake to correspond—they left the house.

The day was so very beautiful, and Alice enjoyed the rare excursion so much, that they prolonged their walk. “Do you think I could walk out from Edinburgh, mother?” said Alice. “I should like so well to come and see Anne often; and, Anne, you will be dull alone.”

“But you will laugh at Miss Crankie, Alice,” said Anne, smiling, “and so get into her bad graces.”

Alice laughed. “Is she not a very strange person?”

“I have no doubt you will find her a kindly body,” said Mrs. Aytoun; “But I hope Jacky’s sense of the ludicrous is not so keen as her poetic feelings. You must take care of Jacky.”

“O, mamma,” said Alice, “you don’t know what a strange good girl Jacky is. People laugh at her, but she would not hurt any one’s feelings.”

“You do Jacky justice, Alice,” said Anne. “She is a strange good girl—she—”

Anne paused suddenly, breathless and excited. Who was that tall, gaunt woman, walking thoughtfully with bent head and lingering foot step, over the sands? She seemed to have come from the spectral dark house, which Anne had noticed before, looming so drearily over the sunny waters. She raised her eyes as they met—the large, wistful, melancholy eyes fell upon Anne’s face. It was the unknown relative of little Lilie—the passenger who, six months ago, had lingered to cast that same searching, woeful look upon the house of Merkland.

Anne was startled and amazed. She thought the stranger seemed disturbed also. Her eyes appeared to dilate and grow keener as she looked earnestly at Anne, and then passed on.

“Do you know that person?” said Mrs. Aytoun, wonderingly.

Anne turned to look after her; instead of her former slow pace, her steps were now nervously quick and unsteady. Surely some unknown emotion strong and powerful, had risen in the stranger’s breast from this meeting. Anne answered Mrs. Aytoun with an effort. “I do not know her—but I have seen her before—I met her once in Strathoran.”

They went on. Anne’s mind was engrossed—she could not, as before, take part in the gay conversation of Alice. Mrs. Aytoun perceived her gravity. After some time, she asked again: “Do you know who she is? I see you are interested in her.”

“I do not know her at all,” said Anne. “You will think me very foolish, Mrs. Aytoun, it is her look—her eyes—she has a very remarkable face.”

“Probably she lives here,” said Mrs. Aytoun. “Let us look at this house.”

The house was no less spectral and gaunt, when they were near it, than at a distance. Many of the windows were closed—the large garden seemed perfectly neglected—only some pale spring flowers bloomed in front of a low projecting window, where there seemed to linger some remnants of cultivation. “It is a mysterious looking house,” said Mrs. Aytoun; “she may keep it perhaps—but there certainly can be no family living here.”

By-and-by they returned to Edinburgh—where Anne spent the remainder of the day in making some necessary calls. She spoke as little as possible of her intention of remaining in Aberford—those ordinary questions were so difficult to answer.

And who was this melancholy woman who had brought little Lilie to Strathoran? Could she have any connection with Norman’s history, or was it only the prevailing tone of Anne’s mind and thoughts that threw its fantastic coloring on every object she looked upon?