UPON the next day, Anne, accompanied by Jacky, left Edinburgh finally for her Aberford lodgings. She felt the isolation strangely at first: being alone in her own room, and being alone in the parlor of Mrs. Yammer’s house, were two very different things. She seated herself by the window as these long afternoon hours wore on. Jacky sat at the other end of the room, already engaged on some one of the numberless linen articles, which had been provided by her prudent mother, to keep her occupied. Jacky had already cast several longing glances at the little shelf between the windows, which contained the books of Mrs. Yammer’s household, but the awe of Anne’s presence was upon her; she sewed and dreamed in silence.

The dark spectral house by the waterside—the melancholy woman who had taken Lilie to Strathoran—Anne’s mind was full of these. Now and then a chance passenger upon the high road crossed before her; once or twice she had seen a solitary figure on the sands. None of these bore the same look. The steady pace of country business, and the meditative one of country leisure she could notice—nowhere the slow lingering heavy footsteps, the wistful melancholy face which distinguished the one individual, whom that fantastic spirit of imagination had already associated with Norman’s fate.

Anne had decided upon beginning her inquiries on the next day. She hastily bethought herself now, of a mode of making this evening of some service in her search; and turning to Jacky, bade her ask Miss Crankie and Mrs. Yammer to take tea with her.—Jacky with some hesitation obeyed—she thought it was letting down Miss Anne’s dignity. Miss Anne herself thought it was rather disagreeable and unpleasant: nevertheless, it might be of use, and she was content to endure it.

Miss Crankie had a turban, terrible to behold, made of black net, with what looked like spangles of yellow paint upon it, which she wore on solemn occasions. In honor of her new lodger, she donned it to-night. Jacky arranged the tea in almost sulky silence. At the appointed hour, Miss Crankie and her sister sailed solemnly in.

It was the merest fiction to call this pleasant house the property of Mrs. Yammer, as all who were favored with any glimpse into its domestic arrangements could easily perceive. Mrs. Yammer was a woeful, patient, resigned woman, very meekly submitting to the absolute dominion of “Johann,” saved for a feeble murmuring of her own complaints, the most voiceless and passive of weak-minded sisters. Miss Johann Crankie was very kind to the woeful widow, who hung upon her active hands so helplessly. She shut her ears to Mrs. Yammer’s countless aches and palpitations, as long as it was practicable—when she could no longer avoid hearing them, she administered bitter physic, and mustard plasters; a discipline which was generally successful in frightening away the distempers for some time.

Mrs. Yammer, in a much-suffering plaintive voice, immediately began to tell Anne of the palpitations of her heart. Miss Crankie fidgeted on her seat, shooting odd glances at Jacky, and intelligent ones of ludicrous pity at Anne, who endured Mrs. Yammer’s enumeration of troubles as patiently as was possible. The tea was a fortunate diversion.

“What is the name of that house on the waterside, Miss Crankie?” asked Anne.

“That’s Schole, Miss Ross,” said Miss Crankie, with the air of a person who introduces a notability. “You will have heard of it before, no doubt? It came into the possession of the present Laird, when he was in his cradle, puir bairn, and his light-headed gowk of a mother has him away, bringing him up in England.—She’s English hersel: maybe ye might ca’ that an excuse. I say its a downright imposition and shame to tak callants away to a strange country to get their breeding, when a’body kens there’s no the like o’ us for learning in a’ the world and Fife?”

“And does the proprietor of the house live in it now?” said Anne.

“Bless me, no—the Laird’s but a callant yet. Tammie, woman, what year was’t that auld Schole died?”

“It was afore I was married,” said Mrs. Yammer, dolefully.—”I was a lang tangle of a lassie then, Miss Ross; and I mind o’ rinning out without my bonnet, and wi’ bare shoulders, and standing by the roadside, to see the funeral gang by. I have never been free o’ rheumatism since that day—whiles in my head—whiles in my arm—whiles—”

“Miss Ross will hear a’ round o’ them afore she gangs away, Tammie,” said Miss Crankie, impatiently, “or else it’ll be a wonderful year. It’s maybe fifteen or sixteen years ago; and the widow and the bairn were off to England in the first month. Ye may tak my word for’t, there wasna muckle grief, though there was crape frae head to fit of her. I mind the funeral as weel as if it had passed this morning—folk pretending they were honoring the dead, that would scarce have spoken a word to him when he was a living man. He was an old, penurious nasty body, that bought a young wife wi’ his filthy siller. Ye mind him, Tammie?”

“Mind him!” said the martyr Tammie, pathetically, “ay, I have guid reason to mind him. Was I no confined to my bed, haill six weeks after that weary funeral wi’ the ticdouleureux? the tae cheek swelled, and the tither cheek blistered. I ken naebody, Johann, that has guid reason to mind him as me.”

“Weel, weel,” said Miss Crankie, “it was a strong plaister of guid mustard that cured ye. It’s a comfort that ane needs nae advice to prepare that—its baith easy made and effectual.”

Mrs. Yammer was cowed into silence. Miss Crankie, with a triumphant chuckle, went on: “And since then there’s been no word of them, Miss Ross, except an intimation in the newspapers, that the light-headed fuil of a woman had married again. Pity the poor bairn that has gotten a stepfather over him, for bye being keeped out of the knowledge o’ his ain land. I was ance in England mysel. There’s no an article in’t but flat fields, and dead water, and dreary lines o’ hedges. Ye may gang frae the tae end to the tither (a’ but the north part, and its maistly our ain,) and never ken ye have made a mile’s progress—its a’ the same thing ower again—and sleek cattle, beasts and men, that ken about naething in this world but eating and drinking. To think of a callant being keeped there, out of the knowledge of his ain country, and it a country like this!”

“It is a great pity, certainly,” said Anne, smiling.

“Pity! it’s a downright wrong and injury to the lad—there’s nae saying if his mind will ever get the better o’t.”

“And is the house empty?” said Anne; “does no one live in it?”

“Naebody that belangs to the house—but there are folk in’t.—There’s a brother and a sister o’ them, and they’re far frae common folk.”

“Is the sister tall and thin—with large, dark, melancholy eyes?” said Anne, anxiously.

“Ay, Miss Ross,” said Miss Crankie, casting a sharp inquisitive look at Anne; “where hae ye fa’en in with her? it’s no often she has ony commerce with strangers.”

“I met her on the sands,” said Anne, suppressing her agitation with an effort; “and was very much struck by her look.”

“I dinna wonder at that—she never was just like ither folk; and since her sister died—puir Kirstin!”

“Have they a story then?” said Anne; she was trembling with interest and impatience—she could scarcely contain herself to ask the question.

“Ay, nae doubt, ye’ll be fond of stories, Miss Ross? the most of you young ladies are.”

“I do feel very much interested in that singular melancholy woman,” said Anne, tremulously.

Miss Crankie examined her face with an odd magpie-like curiosity. Anne smiled in spite of herself. The strange little head nodded, and Miss Crankie began:

“Ye see, Kirstin and me were at the schule thegither. Ye think Kirstin’s younger-like than me? Ay, so she is. I was dux of the class and reading in the Bible, when Kirstin began wi’ the question book; but we were at the schule thegither for a’ that—there’s maybe six or seven years between us. There were three of a family of them; their father had been a doctor—a wild, reckless, dissipated man, like what ower mony were, and the family was puir. I used to take them pieces when they were wee bairns—ye mind, Tammie?”

“Ay,” said the doleful Tammie, “ye see Johann has a pleasure in minding thae times, Miss Ross. It’s different wi’a puir frail widow woman like me; the last year I was at the schule I was never dune wi’ the toothache.”

“Kirstin was the auldest,” said Miss Crankie, turning her back impatiently upon her sister, “and Patrick was next to her, and there was as bonnie a bit lassie as ever you saw, Miss Ross, that was the youngest of the three—she wasna like the young lady that was here yesterday—she was darker and mair womanlike; but eh! she was bonnie.

“They had nae mother—Kirstin was like the mother of them. We used to laugh at her, when she was a wean of maybe twelve hersel, guiding the other twa like as if they had been her ain bairns; she was aye quiet and thoughtful. I was an uncommon grand hand at the bools mysel, and could throw the ba’ as far as Robbie King the heckler—ye mind, Tammie?”

“Ye threw’t on my head yince and broke the skin,” said the disconsolate invalid. “Eh, Miss Ross, the sore headaches I was trysted wi’ when I was a bairn!”

“I am saying there were three of them,” interrupted Miss Crankie. “They had some bit annuity that keepit them scrimply, and by guid fortune the father died when Kirstin was about seventeen; so how she guided the siller I canna tell, or if there was a blessing on’t like the widow’s cruise that never toomed; but she keepit hersel and her little sister decent, and sent Patrick to the college wi’ the rest. They had a cottage, and a guid big garden—she used to be aye working in the garden hersel. I believe they lived on greens and taties a’ the week, and never had fleshmeat in the house but on the Sabbath-day, when Patrick was at hame. Mind, I’m only saying I think that, for they were aye decently put on, and made a puir mouth to nobody.

“Patrick was serving his time to be a doctor. He was dune wi’ his studies, and was biding at hame for a rest, when a young gentleman that was heir of an auld property, on the ither side of Aberford, came into his fortune. Ye’ll maybe have heard of him, Miss Ross—the poor, misguided, unhappy young lad—they ca’ed him Mr. Rutherford, of Redheugh.”

Anne could hardly restrain an involuntary start; she answered, as calmly as she could:

“I have heard the name.”

“Ay, nae doubt—mony mair folk have heard his name than had ony occasion; it was his ain fault to be sure, but he was just a’ the mair to be pitied for that.”

“I was aye chief wi’ Kirstin. I liked her—maybe she didna dislike me. I’ve weeded her flowers to her mony a time. I was throughither whiles in my young days, Miss Ross—no very, but gey. I yince loupit from the top of our garden wa’ wi’ her wee sister in my arms—I had near gotten a lilt with it, for I twisted my ancle—and that would have been a misfortune.”

“Ye trampit on my fit—it’s never been right since,” said Mrs. Yammer; “ye never were out o’ mischief.”

Miss Crankie gave a sidelong look up to Anne, with her odd, merry, little black eyes, and laughed; she took the accusation as a compliment.

“Weel, but that’s no my story. Ye see, Miss Ross, they were never like ither folk—there was aye something about them—I canna describe it. Mrs. Clippie, the Captain’s wife, was genteeler than them—to tell the truth we were genteeler oursels; but for a’ that, there was just something—I never could ken what it was. They keepit no company, but a’ the lads were daft about Marion.”

“What Marion?” exclaimed Anne, eagerly.

“Oh, just Marion Lillie, Kirstin’s sister.”

“Marion Lillie!” a wild thrill of hope, and fear, and wonder shot through Anne’s frame. What could that strange conjunction of names portend?

“So ye see, the young gentleman, Mr. Rutherford, of Redheugh, came to the countryside—and Kirstin’s house is near his gate, and so he behoved to see the bonnie face at the window. It wasna like he could miss it.

“Before lang he had gotten very chief wi’ the haill family—they didna tak it as ony honor—they were just as if they thought themsels the young Laird’s equals; but they were awfu’ fond o’ him. I have seen Patrick’s face flush like fire if onybody minted a slighting word of young Redheugh—no that it was often done, for there was never a man better likit—and Kirstin herself treated him like anither brother, and for Marion—weel, she was but a lassie; but the Laird and her were just like the light of ilk ither’s e’en.

“Ye may think, Miss Ross, there was plenty said about it in the countryside. Rich folk said it wasna right, and puir folk said it wasna right; but Kirstin guarded her young sister so, that naebody daured mint a word of ill—it was only spite and ill-nature.

“Maybe, Miss Ross, your maid will carry ben the tray? or I can cry upon Sarah.”

Miss Crankie lifted up her voice and called at its loudest pitch for her handmaiden. Sarah entered, and cleared away the tea equipage with Jacky’s tardy assistance. Jacky was by no means pleased to find her attendance no longer necessary; she had managed to hear a good deal of the story, and thirsted anxiously for its conclusion.

“Bring me my basket, Sarah,” said Miss Crankie. “Miss Ross, ye’ll excuse me if I take my work. I have no will to be idle—it’s an even down punishment to me.”

Mrs. Yammer crossed her hands languidly upon her lap and sighed. Sarah returned, bearing a capacious work-basket, from which Miss Crankie took a white cotton stocking, in which were various promising holes. “If ye want onything of this kind done, I’ll be very glad, Miss Ross—I’m a special guid hand.”

Anne thanked her.

“But your’e wearying for the end of my story, I see,” said Miss Crankie, “just let me get my needle threaded.”

The needle was threaded—the stocking was drawn upon Miss Crankie’s arm—the black turban nodded in good-humored indication of having settled itself comfortably—and the story was resumed.

“About that time, when young Redheugh was at his very chiefest with the Lillies, and folk said he was going to be married upon Marion, a gentleman came to stay here awhile for the benefit of the sea-side. His wife was a bit delicate young thing—they said he wasna ower guid to her. They lived on the other side of the town, and their name was Aytoun. Mr. Rutherford and him had gotten acquaint in Edinburgh, and for awhile they were great cronies. Patrick Lillie could not bide this stranger gentleman—what for I dinna ken—but folk said Redheugh and him had some bit tifft of an outcast about him; onyway it made no difference in their friendship.

“But one July morning, Miss Ross, we were a’ startled maist out of our senses: there was an awfu’ story got up of a dead man being found by the waterside, just on the skirts of yon muckle wood that runs down close by the sea, and who should this be but the stranger gentleman, Mr. Aytoun. Somebody had shot him like a coward frae behind, and when they looked among the bushes, lo! there was a gun lying, and whose name do you think was on’t? just Mr. Rutherford’s, of Redheugh.

“The haill country was in a fever—the like of that ye ken was a disgrace to us a’—and it was in everybody’s mouth. The first body I thought of was Marion Lillie; the day before she had gone into Edinburgh—folk said it was to get her wedding dress. Eh, puir lassie! was that no a awfu’ story for a bride to hear?

“They gaed to apprehend Mr. Rutherford the same night, but he had fled, and was away before they got to Redheugh, no man kent whither. I met Christian that day; though I ca’ her Kirstin speaking to you, I say aye Miss Lillie to herself. In the one day that the murder was done she had gotten yon look. It feared me when I saw it. Her e’en were travelling far away, as if she could see to ony distance, but had nae vision for things at hand. ‘Eh, Miss Lillie!’ I said to her, ‘isna this an awfu’ thing; wha could have thought it of young Redheugh!’

“‘I will never believe it!’ she said, in a wild away: ‘he is not guilty. I will never believe it!’

“‘And Miss Marion,’ said I, ‘bless me, it will break the puir lassie’s heart.’

“‘I will not let her come home,’ said Kirstin, ‘I will send her to the west country to my father’s friends. She must not come home.’

“She would never say before that there was onything between her sister and young Redheugh—now she never tried to deny it, her heart was ower full.

“Weel, Miss Ross, the miserable young man had gotten away in a foreign ship, and they hadna been at sea aboon a week when she foundered, and a’ hands were lost; and there was an end of his crime and his punishment—they were baith buried in the sea.

“But no the misery of them—the puir lassie was taen away somegate about Glasgow, but the news came to her ears there. What could ye think, Miss Ross? It wasna like a common death—there was nae hope in it, either for this world or the next. It crushed her, as the hail crushes flowers. Within a fortnight after that, bonnie Marion Lillie was in her grave.

“Patrick was taen ill of a fever—they say the angry words he had spoken about Mr. Aytoun to young Redheugh lay heavy on his mind. Kirstin had to nurse him night and day—she couldna even leave him to see Marion buried. She died, and was laid in her grave among strangers. When Patrick was able to leave his bed, the two went west to see the grave—that was all that remained of their bonnie sister Marion.

“Since that time they have lived sorrowful and solitary, keeping company with naebody; the sore stroke has crushed them baith. Patrick never sought his doctor’s licence, nor tried to get a single patient. He has been ever since a broken-down, weak, invalid man.”

“He had a frail constitution like my ain,” said Mrs. Yammer, “and Johann maun aye have some great misfortune to account for it, when it’s naething but weakness. Eh, Miss Ross, if ye only kent the trouble it is to a puir frail creature like me to make any exertion.”

Miss Crankie twisted her strange little figure impatiently:

“When auld Schole died, Christian and Patrick flitted into the house, and let their ain; they couldna bide it after that. It’s a bit bonnie wee place, maybe twa miles on the ither side of Aberford; and Redheugh is maybe a quarter o’ a mile nearer. They say the King gets the lands when ony man does a crime like that; it’s what they ca’ confiscate. Redheugh has been confiscate before now. The auld Rutherfords were Covenanters langsyne, and lost their inheritance some time in the eight-and-twenty years—but that was in a guid cause. Ony way, this Mr. Rutherford was the last of his name: if there had been ony heir, I kenna whether he could have gotten Redheugh or no, but it’s a mercy the race is clean gane, and there is none living to bear the reproach.”

Anne’s heart beat loudly against her breast; she remained to represent the fallen house of Rutherford—she was the heir—the reproach: and the suffering must be her’s as well as Norman’s.

“And was there no doubt?” she asked, “was no one else suspected?”

“Bless me, no; wha in our quiet countryside would lift a hand against a man’s life? If he hadna done it, he wadna have fled away; and if Kirstin had ony certainty that he hadna done it, do you think she could have bidden still? Na, I ken Kirstin Lillie better. Patrick was aye a weakly lad, ower gentle for the like of that, but Kirstin could never have sitten down in idleset if there had been ony hope. Mony a heart was wae for him at the time, but the story has blawn by now; few folk think of it. I wadna have tell’t ye, Miss Ross, if ye hadna noticed Kirstin first yoursel—but ye’ll no mention it again.”

“I certainly will not do anything that could hurt Miss Lillie’s feelings,” said Anne.

“Ye see, she’s half housekeeper of Schole the now; she pays nae rent, or if there’s ony, it’s just for the name, and the house is sae dismal-looking that naebody seeks to see’t. You would think they couldna thole a living face dear them; they gang to the Kirk regular, and whiles ye will see them wandering on the sands; but for visiting onybody, or having onybody visiting them, ye might as weel think of the spirits in heaven having commune with us that are on the earth.”

“And that minds me,” said Mrs. Yammer, breaking in with a long loud sigh, which the impatient Miss Crankie knew by dire experience was the prelude to a doleful story, “of the awfu’ fright I got after my man John Yammer was laid in his grave, that brought on my palpitation. Ye see, Miss Ross, I was sitting my lane, yae eerie night about Martinmas, in my wee parlor that looks out on the green; and Johann, she was away at Aberford, laying in some saut meat for the winter—wasna it saut meat, Johann?”

“Never you mind, Tammie, my woman,” said Johann, persuasively. “We’re dune wi’ saut meat for this year.”

“Ay, but it was just to let Miss Ross see the danger of ower muckle thought, and how it brought on my palpitation. Eh woman, Johann, if ye only kent how my puir heart beats whiles, louping in my breast like a living creature!”

And the whole story was inflicted upon Anne—of how Mrs. Yammer, on the aforesaid dreary Martinmas night, fancied she saw the shadow of the umquhile John, gloomily lowering on her parlor wall; of how her heart “played thud and cracked, like as it wad burst,” as the shadowy head nodded solemnly, darkening the whole apartment; of how at last Johann returned, and with profane laughter, discovered the ghost to be the shadow of a branch of the old elm without, some bare twigs upon the extremity of which were fashioned into the likeness of an exceeding retrousee nose, “the very marrow” of that prominent feature in the face of the late lamented John; of which discovery his mournful relic was but half convinced, and her heart had palpitated since, “sometimes less, and sometimes mair, but I’ve never been quit o’t for a week at a time.”

The infliction terminated at last, Miss Crankie carried her sister off when the gloaming began to darken, having sufficient discernment to perceive that Anne’s patience had been enough tried for a beginning.

Anne’s thoughts were in a maze. She sat down by the window in the soft gloom of the spring night, and looked towards the house, where beat another true and faithful heart which had wept and yearned over Norman—Marion—Marion—was she living or dead? could this Christian Lillie be aware of Norman’s existence, and of his innocence? There could not be two betrothed Marions. In the latter part of the story, the countryside must have been deceived. Who so likely to accompany the exile as the sister of this brave woman, who had done the housemother’s self-denying duty in her earliest youth? Anne’s pulse beat quick, she became greatly agitated; was there then a tie of near connexion between herself and this stranger, whose path she had again crossed? Was Norman’s wife Christian’s sister? had they an equal stake in the return of the exile?

She could not sit still—cold dew was bursting upon her forehead; she walked from window to window in feverish excitement. Could she dare to ask?—could she venture to make herself known? Alas, she was still no whit advanced in her search for proof of Norman’s innocence! If Christian Lillie had possessed any clue, she must, it was certain, have used it before now; and until some advance had been made, these two strangers in their singular kindred would not dare to whisper to one another that Norman lived.

Anne threw herself upon her chair again. And Lilie—who was Lilie? Why was this stranger child brought—of all localities in the world—to the neighbourhood of Merkland? Could it be? could it be? her heart grew sick with feverish hope and anxiety; her mind continued to hover about, and dwell upon this mystery; but she almost forcibly restrained herself from articulate thought upon it—she could not venture yet to entertain the hope.

And Norman! Esther Fleming’s story had brought him out clear before her, in the gay light of his generous boyhood.—Graver and more deeply affecting was this. Who might venture to compute the untold agonies of that terrible time of parting—the nervous compulsory strength of the girl-heart that went with him—the stern patience of the maturer one, who above by the sick-bed at home! Grief that must have remained with all its burning sense of wrong, and heavy endurance of an undeserved curse, since ever little Alice Aytoun opened her blue eyes to the light—a lifetime of pain, and fear, and sorrow—too dreadful to look back upon!

And Anne’s heart sank when she looked forward—living here, in the immediate spot where the deed was done, with all facility for collecting favorable evidence, and with better knowledge, and a more immediate certainty of Norman’s innocence than even Anne herself could have—why had the brother and sister done nothing to remove this stain? She could only account for it by supposing them paralysed with fear—terrified to risk the present security of those so dear to them, for any uncertainty even of complete acquittal—and afraid of making any exertion, lest the eyes of curiosity should be turned upon them.

The Forth lay vast in silvery silence, breathing long sighs along its sands. Opposite swelling soft and full, in the spiritual dimness of the spring night, rose the fair lands of Fife. Still and solemn in its saintly evening rest, lay the beautiful earth everywhere. Only awake and watching, under dusky roofs, and in dim chambers, were the hoping, toiling, wrestling souls of men, nobler and of mightier destiny, than even the beautiful earth.

The next morning, when she entered the sunny little parlor, Anne found Jacky rearranging, according to her own ideas of elegance, the breakfast equipage, which Miss Crankie’s energetic little servant had already placed upon the table. Anne smiled, and felt almost uncomfortable, as she observed the solitary cup and saucer on the table—the single plate—the minute teapot.—After all, this living alone, had something very strange in it.

Jacky seemed to think so too: she filled out Anne’s cup of tea, and lingered about the back of her chair.

“If ye please, Miss Anne—”

“Well, Jacky?”

“If ye please,” said Jacky, hesitating, “do ye ken wha little Miss Lilie is?”

Anne started and turned round in alarm—was this strange, dark maid of her’s really an elfin, after all?

“No, Jacky,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because—it’s no forwardness, Miss Anne,” murmured Jacky, hanging down her head.

“I know that, Jacky—because what?”

“Because, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, emboldened, “I saw a lady down on the sands. She was standing close by the bushes at yon dark house, and her e’en were travelling ower the water, and her face was white—I will aye mind it—and—”

“And what?”

“It was her that brought little Lilie to the Mill. I saw her once by Oranside at night; and she was on our side of the water; and she was looking across at Merkland.”

“Was Lilie with her then, Jacky?”

“No, Miss Anne; but I saw her after, leading Lilie by the hand, and then she was on the Merkland side, where Esther Fleming lives; and she was walking about, canny and soft, as if she wanted to see in.”

“And are you sure it is the same lady, Jacky?” said Anne.

“I ken, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, eagerly; “because there’s no twa faces like yon in a’ the world; and, Miss Anne, do ye mind Lilie’s e’en?”

“Yes, Jacky.”

Anne did recollect them—and how dark and full their liquid depths were!

“Because Lilie’s e’en are the very same—only they’re no sae woeful—and I kent the lady would be some friend, but Mrs. Melder said it couldna be her mother.”

Anne’s heart swelled full. Could this little child be as near of kindred to herself as to Christian Lillie? Her mind was overflowing with this. She forgot that Jacky lingered.

“And, if ye please, Miss Anne—”

Anne again turned round to listen.

“She was looking away ower the water, and leaning on the hedge—maybe she lives yonder—and Miss Anne—”

“What is it, Jacky?”

Jacky drew near and spoke very low:

“Do you mind the sang, Miss Anne, that Miss Alice sang on the New-year’s night, when Mr. Archibald came home to the Tower?”

Anne started.

“The lady was saying it to hersel very low—the way Lilie sings her strange music.”

“What did she say, Jacky?”

“If ye please, Miss Anne, it was a short verse—it was about seeing the stars rise upon the Oran. I can say’t a’.” And Jacky hung back, and blushed and hesitated.

The connexion became clearer by every word. “The student lad” who wrote this ballad—could it be Patrick Lillie?

“Was it last night you heard this, Jacky?”

“No, Miss Anne, it was this morning very early. I wanted to see the sea,” said Jacky, bashfully, “and I saw the sun rise. But I think the lady wasna heeding for the sea. She wasna there at a’. She was in her ain spirit.”

“And you are sure you are not mistaken, Jacky?” said Anne.

“Miss Anne!” exclaimed Jacky, “ye would ken yourself, if you saw her. Its just Lilie’s e’en—only they are far, far deeper and sadder, and aye searching and travelling, as if something was lost that they bid to find, and were seeking for night and day.”

“That they bid to find!” The words roused Anne. “Did you mention this to any one?” she asked.

Jacky looked injured—an imputation on her honor she could not bear.

“I never tell things, Miss Anne. I’m no a talepyet.”

“Well, Jacky, remember that I trust you. I have heard that this lady has had great sorrow; and she has some good reason, no doubt, for not keeping Lilie beside her. Mind, you must never mention this to any one—not to Bessie—not even to your mother, when we return. No one knows it, but you and me. I am sure I can trust you, Jacky.”

Jacky gave a faithful promise, and went away with secret and proud dignity. She also had entered upon the search—she had begun to co-operate with Anne.