THE summer had reached its height—the fervent month of July was waning, and Anne Ross’s cheek growing paler every day.—Very hard to bear this time of waiting was, harder than any toil or labor, more utterly exhausting than any weight of care and sorrow, which had opportunity and means of working! She hardly ventured to speak of returning to Aberford, for Mrs. Ross’s peevishness at the merest hint of such a wish, and the impatience of Lewis, were perfectly natural, she acknowledged. Her former journey, undertaken in opposition to their opinion, had produced nothing; she could not expect that they would readily yield to her again.

In the meantime tidings had come from Archibald Sutherland. He had reached his destination safely, and, under circumstances much more favorable than he could have hoped, had commenced his work. He had been able to render some especial service, the nature of which he did not specify, to his employer’s only son, a very fine lad of fourteen or fifteen, which within a few days of his arrival brought him into Mr. Sinclair’s house on the footing of a friend. Mr. Sinclair himself was, as common report said, a man of great enterprise in business, and notable perseverance, whose fortune was the work of his own hands; and blending with this, Archibald found a singular delicacy of tone and sentiment which pleased him greatly. A man of strong mould, whose “stalk of carle hemp,” was invested with rare intellectual grace and refinement—a household which, under the fervent skies of that strange Western World, remained still a Scottish household, looking back with the utmost love and tenderness to its own country and home—in the atmosphere of these, the broken laird found himself not long a stranger.

Mr. Sinclair had some knowledge of the North country—had heard of Archibald’s family, and on some long past occasion, had seen Mrs. Catherine. This was an additional bond. The family of the merchant lived a very quiet life in a country house in the vicinity of the town, having scarcely any visitors: Archibald Sutherland, with his attainments and abilities, was an acquisition to them.

His prospects were pleasant; they brightened the inner room at the Tower, and shed a ray of light even upon Anne’s reveries. Something more was needed, however, to shake off the lethargic sadness that begun to overpower her. Mrs. Catherine applied the remedy.

Upon a drowsy July afternoon, when one could fancy the earth, with her flushed cheek and loose robes, lying in that languid dreamy state, half way between asleep and awake, which in Scotland we call “dovering,” Mrs. Catherine in her rustling silken garments, went stately down under the shadow of the trees, to Merkland. It was a very unusual honor. Mrs. Catherine was wont to receive visits, not to pay them.

Anne went to the gate to receive her. Lewis who, with characteristic prudence, had already begun to devote himself to the careful managing of his lands, put away the papers that lay before him, and left the library with much wonder, to ascertain Mrs. Catherine’s errand. Mrs. Ross rose very peevishly from the sofa on which she had been for the last hour enjoying her usual sleep. It was enough to make any one ill-humored to be disturbed so unexpectedly.

“Now, Madam,” said Mrs. Catherine, when Mrs. Ross had greeted her with great ceremony and politeness, “you may ken I have come for a special purpose; I am going to Edinburgh.”

“To Edinburgh!” exclaimed Mrs. Ross; “you, Mrs. Catherine. How shall we manage to get on at all without you?”

“You will contrive it in some manner doubtless,” said Mrs. Catherine, drily.

“I may, perhaps, for I am a great house-keeper; but for Anne and Lewis, nothing goes right if a week passes without two or three visits to the Tower.”

“Ay, Lewis, is it so?” said Mrs. Catherine. “I thought not I had kept the power, now that I am past threescore, of drawing to my dwelling gallants of your years.”

“I have not been at the Tower for a month,” said Lewis, bluntly; “I mean I have been very much occupied.”

“As you should be,” said Mrs. Catherine. “I am not seeking excuses, Lewis; I am but blythe that it is not my memory that is failing me—seeing I should like ill to suffer loss in that particular, till this world’s affairs are out of my hands—be careful of your lawful business, Lewis, as becomes your years. If you were a good bairn, I might maybe do my endeavor to bring folk back with me, that your leisure would be better spent upon: in the meantime, I have a suit to your mother.”

Mrs. Ross looked astonished.

“To me?”

“Yes; this bairn Anne, Mrs. Ross, as you see, has been misbehaving herself. My own gray cheek, withered as it is, has stronger health upon it than is on her young one. I have a doctor of physic among my serving woman; I see no reason why I should not undertake to work cures as well as my neighbors—send her with me—I will bring her back free of her trouble.”

“Oh, I beg you will not refer to me,” said Mrs. Ross, angrily. “Anne is quite able to judge for herself.”

“I beg your pardon, Madam. I say this bairn Anne has no call to judge for herself. Is it your pleasure that I should try my skill? I came to make my petition to you, and not to Anne.”

“She is an excessively unreasonable girl,” said Mrs. Ross, tossing her head; “if you know how to manage her, it is more than I do. I assure you, Mrs. Catherine, Anne’s conduct to me is of the most undutiful kind. She is a very foolish, unreasonable girl.”

Poor Anne had been laboring these three or four weeks to please her stepmother, as assiduously as any fagged governess or sempstress in the land. The honorable scars of the needle had furrowed her finger; she had been laboring almost as hardly, and to much better purpose than the greater portion of those “needlewomen, distressed or otherways,” whose miserable work done for miserable wages attracts so much sympathy and benevolent exertion in these days. She was somewhat astonished at the undeserved accusation. If she did wander for long miles along the course of the Oran, it was in the dewy morning, before Mrs. Ross had left her room. If she did brood over her secret hope and sorrow, it was when Mrs. Ross was sullen or asleep. She said nothing in self-defence, but felt the injustice keenly, notwithstanding.

“That is what I am saying,” said Mrs. Catherine. “She has been misbehaving herself, and we have noticed her pining away, in silence. So far as I can see, it is high time to take note of it now; therefore my petition is, that you suffer her to go with me. It is not my wont to pass over ill-doing; let me have the guiding of her for a while.”

“I think you ought to take advantage of Mrs. Catherine’s invitation, Anne,” said Lewis. “You do not look well.”

Mrs. Ross tossed her head in silence.

“Truly, Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, “I have worn out of the way of asking favors; maybe it is want of use that makes me prosper so ill. Am I to get your daughter, Mrs. Ross for company on my travel, or am I not? I must pray you to let me have your answer.”

“Oh, if you choose to take her, and if Anne chooses to go, my consent is of little consequence,” said Mrs. Ross: then softening her tone a little, she added, “I have no objection, unfortunately Anne is not of sufficient importance in the household, Mrs. Catherine, to make us feel the want of her greatly. Certainly I have no objection—she can go.”

A harsh reply rose to Mrs. Catherine’s lips; but for Anne’s sake, she, suppressed it—the permission, ungracious as it was, was accepted, and Mrs. Catherine made arrangements with Anne for their journey; she had settled that they should leave the Tower that week.

Mrs. Catherine travelled in her own carriage. She had an old house, grand and solitary, in an old quarter of Edinburgh, whose antique furniture and lofty rooms strangers came to see, as one of the lesser wonders of the city, which boasts so many. Mrs. Catherine’s horses were proceeding at a good pace along the southward road, within sight of a dazzling sea, and very near the dark high cliffs, and scattered fisher villages which formed its margin. Johnnie Halflin sat beside the coachman, Jacky Morison and her grandmother were behind. Mrs. Catherine within was explaining her plans to Anne.

“It is my purpose, child, to set you to your labor again; I see there is neither health nor peace for you until you have got some better inkling of this matter. Am I not right?”

“Perfectly,” said Anne. “I cannot rest, indeed. I shall be of little use to any one, until some light is thrown on this.”

“Then, child, it is my meaning to dwell in my own house in Edinburgh, where you can find me, if I am needed. I cannot be in the house of a stranger, or I would have gone with you. I am not ill-pleased that this necessity has come, for there are many in Edinburgh, that it is meet I should say farewell to, before I depart to my rest. Forbye this, child, there is another cloud rising upon the sky of that ill-trysted house of Sutherland.”

Anne started.

“Archibald is well—is there any further intelligence, Mrs. Catherine?”

“Archie’s sister is not well, Gowan. Did I not tell you that her fuil of a man was dead?”

“No, I never heard it before.”

“I meant to tell you—it has passed from my mind, in the thought of the travel. He has been killed—how, or for what reason, I have not asked. I have written to Isabel Sutherland to come home. I cannot trust her without natural guard or helper, her lane in the midst of strangers. She is a light-headed, vain, undutiful girl—I know her of old—and farther shame must not come upon the house, Gowan, if it is in my power to ward it off. If she will not come, I have made up my mind—I will go, and bring her home.”

“Go!” exclaimed Anne. “To England?—you are not able for the journey.”

“Hold your peace, child! I am able for whatever is needful, as every mortal is, that has a right will to try. It’s my hope Archie Sutherland is in a fair way of recovering his good fame and healthful spirit. If Isabel is in peril, it is deadly and beyond remedy—for the sake of the fuil herself (she bears Isabel Balfour’s name and outward resemblance,) and for the sake of Archie, I am bound to do my endeavor, if it should be by the strong hand. Child, you may think me distrustful beyond what is needed. Maybe I am. She left her mother’s sick-bed for the sake of a strange man. And when he was sent to a solitary place, she left him, also, for the sake of vanities. If you had done the like, I would have distrusted you.”

Anne could not realize the cause of distrust. She deprecated, and thought Mrs. Catherine’s fears uncalled for—shrinking from the idea of danger to Isabel, almost as she would have done from any suspicion of herself.

When she had seen Mrs. Catherine settled comfortably in her spacious and grand Edinburgh lodging, and the bustle of arrival fairly over, Anne, with her attendant Jacky, proceeded to Aberford.

Miss Crankie and Mrs. Yammer were at tea. Their energetic little servant ushered Anne into the small parlor, looking out upon the green, in which they usually sat. They had blue cups and saucers of the venerable willow pattern, arranged above the red and yellow lady on the tray—a teapot, belonging to the same set, with a lid, the sole relic of a broken black one—a comfortable plate of tolerably thick bread-and-butter, and two or three saucers, containing various specimens of jellies. Mrs. Yammer sat languidly in a great, old elbow-chair. Miss Crankie was perched upon a low seat before the tray, making tea.

Anne’s entrance caused a commotion. There were a great many apologies, and expressions of wonder and pleasure at seeing her again; and then she was begged to take a seat, and a cup of tea. Anne sat down, and kindly looked out at the window, while Miss Crankie abstracted the lid from the teapot, and, from the depths of an adjoining cupboard, produced another one more resembling it in color.

“Ye see,” said Miss Crankie, nodding her wiry little curls at the ruddy-colored compounds in the saucers, “we’ve been making our jelly, and were just trying it. I can recommend the rasps, Miss Ross—the red currants would take a thought mair boiling, and the gooseberries are drumlie—but I can recommend the rasps.”

“If Miss Ross is no feared for her teeth,” sighed Mrs. Yammer. “I got cauld mysel on Sabbath at the Kirk, and was trying the jam for my throat. I’m a puir weak creature, Miss Ross: the wind gangs through me like a knife.”

“I have returned to you for accommodation, Miss Crankie,” said Anne. “Are the rooms unoccupied now?”

“Eh, bless me! isna that an uncommon providence,” exclaimed Miss Crankie. “Mrs. Mavis is gaun away the morn!”

“But what can you do with me to-night?” said Anne.

“Oh, nae fear o’ us—we’ll do grand,” said Miss Crankie. “I’m blyth ye’re come back Miss Ross, and yet I’m sorry to see you so shilpit. Ye’ll find the sea-air do ye mair guid noo. Ye’re no looking half sae well as ye did when ye gaed away.”

“Ah! Miss Ross,” said Mrs. Yammer, dolorously, “I hope ye’ll use the means and get right advice in time. Ye’ll be fashed wi’ a pain in your side? For mysel, it’s little use saying what I have to thole—there’s scarce an hour in the day, that I havna stitches through and through me.”

“Hout, Tammie, ye’re aye meat-hale,” responded her brisker sister. “Ye’ve come at a better season now, Miss Ross, the haill town is full of sea-bathers. I was saying to auld Marget, that she might win a pound or twa for her ain hand, with letting some o’ thae muckle rooms, in Schole, and naebody, be the waur—it’s sae handy for the sea—if Kirstin Lillie and her brother, hadna come hame sae suddenly.”

“They are at home, then?” said Anne.

“Oh, ay! they came hame about a month ago, in as great a hurry as they gaed away; ane scarce ever sees them noo, even on the sands—they’re strange folk.”

The next day, young Mrs. Mavis and her two blooming children left their sea-side lodgings, and Anne took peaceful possession of her former rooms. The tall gaunt outline of Schole, as it stood out against the deep blue of the evening sky, dismal and forlorn as it was, looked like a friend; but though she lingered about its vicinity all the night, and watched eagerly within sight of its little gate, no one ventured forth. The low projecting window had light within it, but it was curtained carefully. She could see no trace of Christian. Why did they avoid her? why was there so much additional secrecy and seclusion?

The second day after their arrival in Aberford, Jacky had a visitor. It was little Bessie, Alice Aytoun’s maid. Bessie was living with an aunt, the wife of a forester, whose house was within three or four miles of Aberford. Jacky, by Anne’s permission, returned with her to spend the afternoon in the aunt’s house.

The two girls set out very jubilant and in high spirits, with much laughing mention of Johnnie Halflin, whom Bessie had already seen in Edinburgh, and from whom she had received a very grandiloquent account of the chastisement of Mr. Fitzherbert, and of the mighty things which the said Johnnie would have done, had not Miss Falconer put her veto on his valor.

The forester’s house was in the bosom of the wood under his charge. A narrow foot-road, winding through the trees, ran close to the bounding hedge of its well-stocked garden, and nestling warmly below the thick foliage, the house stood snug in the corner of its luxuriant enclosure, presiding in modest pride, like some sober cottage matron, conscious of decent comfort and independence, over its flourishing cabbages, and stately bushes of southern-wood, ripe gooseberries, and abounding roses. Within, it was as clean and bright as forest cottage could be, and with its long vistas of noble trees everywhere, and the one thread of communication with the outer world that ran close to its door, was a pleasant habitation—homelike and cheerful. Bessie’s aunt was, like her cottage, soberly light-hearted, kind and motherly. Upon her well scoured white deal table, she had set out a row of glancing cups and saucers, flanked with delicate bannocks of various kinds, and jelly more plentiful than Miss Crankie’s. It was early in the afternoon. Mrs. Young, honest woman, hospitably purposed entertaining her guests with a magnificent tea before her husband and stalwart sons came in to their ruder and more substantial meal. She gave her niece’s friend a hearty welcome; the two girls, after their dusty walk of four miles, by no means thought the kindly auntie’s preparations unseasonable; but after Mrs. Young had turned a deaf ear to two or three hints from Bessie, she explained her delay at last.

“Ye see, lassies, there’s an auld neighbor coming this gate this afternoon. Her and me served in one place before I was married, and she’s been lang in a gentleman’s house, south—near Berwick. She’s an auld lass; a thrifty weel-doing carefu’ woman, wi’ a guid wage, and siller to the fore; but she’s come to years when folk are lone, if they have nae near friends, and Rob Miller, her brither, has a housefu’ o’ weans; and I’m no sure that his wife can be fashed fyking about a pernickity single woman. So ye maun see and be ceevil, and take note o’ Jean—how weel put on and wise-like she is—and tak a pattern by her; it’s a’ her ain doing; she’s been working for hersel’ a’ her days.”

Bessie drummed upon the table—looked at the tea “masking” before the fire, the smooth, well-baked bannocks, and beautiful red currant jelly upon the table—and became impatient.

“I wish she would come then, auntie. It’s awfu’ stourie on the road.”

“Yonder’s somebody in among the trees,” said Jacky, glancing out.

It was Mrs. Young’s friend at last, and the good woman bestirred herself to complete her table arrangements, while Bessie conveyed the mighty Leghorn bonnet and wonderful Paisley shawl, which Rob Miller’s eldest daughter already looked forward to as a great inheritance, into the inner room. Mrs. Young’s friend was a tall, bony, erect woman, with a thin brown face, and projecting teeth, and sandy hair carefully smoothed beneath a muslin cap, modestly, tied with a scrap of blue ribbon. She was a very homely, unhandsome-looking person, yet had an unassuming simplicity about her, not common in the upper servant class. Jean Miller had known evil in her day. The long upper lip pressing above these irregular ill-shaped teeth of her’s had quivered with deep griefs many times in the painful and weary past years, which had left no record of themselves or of her course in them, save that most deeply pathetic one engraven in her own solitary high heart—a high heart it was, humble and of slight regard as was the frame it dwelt in—much stricken, sorely tried, and with an arrow quivering in it still.

Jean’s hands were rigidly crossed in her lap; she was never quite at ease in idleness. Mrs. Young good-humoredly drew her chair to the table, called Bessie, placed the teapot on the tray, and began her duties. There was a simple blessing asked upon the “offered mercies,” according to the reverent usage of peasant families in Scotland, and then the dainties were discussed.

“And how is Andrew winning on wi’ his learning, Jean?” said Mrs. Young.

There was a slight quivering of the thin upper lip—very slight—no eye less keen than Jacky’s could have perceived it.

“They tell me very weel,” said Jean, meekly; “he’s been getting some grand books in a prize, and they’re unco weel pleased wi’ him at the college.”

“He’s a clever lad,” said Mrs. Young.

“Ay, I’ll no say but he’s a lad of pairts,” said Jean, “if he but makes a right use o’ them.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Young, sympathetically, “they’re no ower guid company for that, thae young doctor-lads. Eh, keep me! Jean woman, if this callant was taking to ill courses like his faither, ye wad never haud up your head again.”

Jean’s lip quivered again—more visibly this time—the discipline of her self-denying life had been a stern one. The prodigal of her family, the gayest, handsomest, and cleverest of them all, a good workman, and an idle one, had hung upon her, a heavy, painful burden, falling step by step in the ruinous downward course of reckless dissipation, until he ended his days at last, shorn of all the gaiety and cleverness which had thrown a veil at first upon his sin—an imbecile, drivelling drunkard. With mighty anguish, which few comprehended or could sympathize with, she had prayed, entreated, remonstrated, forgiven, and supported him through all his sad career. He left an orphan boy on her hands. With the tenderest mother-anxiety, Jean Miller had brought up this child—with genuine mother-ambition, had, at the cost of long labor, and much self-denying firmness on her own part, sent him to college when he reached proper years, eager to raise him above the fear of that terrible stain and sin which had destroyed the first Andrew—her once gay and clever brother. But of late insidious voices had whispered in her ear that the second Andrew had taken the first step in that descending course. In agony unspeakable, the youth’s watchful guardian hastened to Edinburgh to ascertain the truth of this. She found it false; there was yet no appearance of any budding evil, but her heart, falling back upon its sad experience, sank within her, prophetic of evil. She said nothing in return to the ill-advised sympathy of Mrs. Young—her lip quivered—it was more eloquent than words.

“You’re new to this country, I’m thinking?” she said, addressing Jacky.

“Yes,” said Jacky, bashfully.

“She’s frae the north country,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye’ve been lang out o’ this pairt yoursel, Jean.”

“Ay,” was the answer, “it’s eighteen year past the twenty-first o’ June—I mind the day weel.”

“That would be about the time the gentleman was killed,” said Mrs. Young.

“Yes,” said Jean; “the very morning. I’ll ne’er forget it.”

“Eh, auntie!” exclaimed Bessie. “Whatna gentleman?”

Jacky did not speak, but her thin, angular frame thrilled nervously, and she fixed her keen eyes upon Jean.

“Deed a gentleman ye’ve heard o’ often enough, Bessie,” said her aunt. “Miss Alice’s father—ye’ve heard your mother telling the story about Mr. Aytoun mony a time, nae doubt. Ye see, Jean, my sister was Mrs. Aytoun’s right-hand woman. I dinna ken how the puir lady would have won through her trouble ava, when Miss Alice was born, if it hadna been for our Bell—no that he was ower guid a man, if a’ tales were true, but nae doubt it was an awfu’ dispensation. Ane forgets ill and wrang when the doer o’t’s taen away—and a violent death like that!”

“Weel,” said Jean Miller, “a’body’s dear to their ain. But he wasna muckle worth the mourning for.”

“And how was he killed?” asked Jacky, with some trepidation.

“Anither gentleman—a fine, cheery, kindly lad as ye could see—shot him wi’ a gun. It was an awfu’ disgrace to the parish, as weel as a great crime; but, sae far as I could hear, the folk were mair wae for young Redheugh than they were for Mr. Aytoun.”

“And were they sure he did it?” asked Jacky, breathlessly.

“Sure! Lassie, what could be surer? They found his gun, wi’ his name on’t and they saw him himsel leaving the wood; and unco easy he had ta’en it, as the folk say, for he was gaun whistling and singing at a fule sang, and the man’s bluid on his hand.”

“If he took it easy, it’s mair than his friends did,” said Jean Miller, significantly.

“I never heard tell of ony friends he had in this part,” said the matter-of-fact Mrs. Young. “He was nephew to the auld family, and no son. I mind hearing ance that he was frae some place away in the Hielands—but maybe that was a’ lees.”

“But maybe you werena meaning a relation?” adventured Jacky, addressing Jean.

“Na, lassie, it was nae relation. I ken naething about his kin: it was a friend—ane that was uncommon chief wi’ him. He was a student lad at that time, that had served his time to be a doctor like my ain nephew Andrew, only he was done wi’ the college; and if ever mortal man was out o’ his mind wi’ trouble and fricht and sore grief for an unhappy reprobate, it was that lad, the morning o’ the murder.”

“Did you see him?” exclaimed Jacky, anxiously.

“Ay, lass, I saw him. I was gaun hame that very day to my place that I’m in yet—I’ve been eighteen year past wi’ the same mistress—and it happened I was by that waterside between eight and nine in the morning. I was but a young lass then, and I had reason for’t—it’s nae matter now what it was. I was coming round the howe o’ the brae where the road turns aff to the Milton, when I met that lad. That white apron had mair a life-like color than he had on his face; but, for a’ that, he was wiping his brow for heat. The look of him was like the look of a man that had the bluid standing still in his veins. He neither saw me, nor the road he was gaun on, but just dashed on right before him, as if naething could stop him in the race. Ye may tak my word, it’s nae little grief like what men ca’ sympathy or pity, that could pit a man into a blind madness like that. I ken mair about it noo than I did then.”

“Woman—Jean!” exclaimed Mrs. Young; “what for did ye no come forrit at the time—it might have helped the proof? Losh! would the tane be helping the tither? would there be twa o’ them at the misfortunate man?”

“Na; he was an innocent, pithless callent, that Maister Patrick,” said Jean. “He could have nae hand in’t. A’ that day I couldna get his face out o’ my mind; but I had mony things to trouble me, sorting at my mother, and putting things right for Andrew—he was doing weel then, puir man!—and getting my ain kist ready for my journey, and I gaed away early in the day, and so I didna hear o’ the murder. And my mother was nae hand at the writing, and Andrew, puir man, was aye a thocht careless, and I never saw ane belanging to my ain place, to tell me the news. So a’ the trying that there was, was dune, and poor young Redheugh was lying at the bottom of the sea, before I ever heard tell o’t—but I’ve aye minded sinsyne Maister Patrick Lillie’s awfu’ face—I’ve had a kindness for him frae that day, for of a’ the sair troubles in this world, I ken nane, like murning ower a sinner that ye canna mend, and yet that ye would gie your ain life for, as blythe as ever ye gaed to your rest. I ken what it is—and sure am I, that if ever there was a man distracted with the crime o’ anither, it was Maister Patrict Lillie, for young Redheugh.”

“And was Redheugh an ill man?” said Jacky, in a half whisper.

“I never heard an ill word o’ him till then. He was as weel likit as a man could be—and a kinder heart to puir folk there wasna in the countryside.”

“And that’s true,” said Mrs. Young. “Ye should take it to yoursels, lassies—you that are young, and havena got the rule o’ your ain spirits. There was a fine young gentleman, ye see, wi’ routh o’ a’ thing, as grand as heart could desire, and yet he tint baith life and name, in this world and the next, a’ for an evil anger in his heart. It’s an awfu’ warning—it’s our pairt to improve it for our ain edification.”

“And what for was the gentleman angry at Mr. Aytoun?” asked Bessie.

“Oh! the adversary has aye plenty spunks to light that fire wi’. Some folk say yae thing, and some anither. I’ve heard it was for speaking lightly of a young lady that was trothplighted to Redheugh.”

“And what for did he no fecht him, the way folk fecht in books?” said Bessie.

“Nae doubt because the enemy thought he had fa’en on an easier plan of putting an end to them baith. Nae mortal in this world, let alane a bit lassie like you, can faddom the wiles o’ the auld serpent, or the weakness o’ folk’s ain treacherous hearts. It’s no what folk should do, to be making a wark about a criminal like that, that shed blood wi’ a wilful hand—but there was mony a heart in the parish wae for Redheugh.”

“And him that ye saw coming out of the wood?” said Jacky, tremulously, turning to Jean Miller again: “how would he ken?”

“I canna tell,” said Jean. “It was my thought he had met Redheugh, or seen him, when the deed was new done—and it stunned the very soul within him, so that he scarce kent in his extremity what it was, that was pitting him distracted. I was asking Rob’s wife about him last night: she says his sister and him are living their lane in an unco quiet way. Puir lad!—but he’ll be a man of years now.”

“And ye didna speak to him?” said Jacky.

“Speak to him! Lassie, if ye havena a lighter weird than ither folk, ye’ll ken before lang, that sore trouble is not to be spoken to. I wad rather gang into a king’s chamber unbidden, than put mysel forrit, when I wasna needed, into the heavy presence of grief.”

“For grief is a king, too,” murmured Jacky.

“And so it is,” said Jean Miller, with another emphatic quiver of her lip—the little narrow Edinburgh attic, in which her student nephew toiled, or ought to toil, rising before her eyes, and her heart yearning over him in unutterable agonies of tenderness—”and so it is—and kenning that there’s sin in ane ye like weel, or fearing that there’s sin, in ane whose purity is the last hope o’ your heart, that’s the king o’ a’ griefs. But, mind, ye mauna say a word of this ower again. I never tell’t onybody before now, and I would like ill to add a trouble to a sair heart. Mind, ye mauna mention this again.”

“Yonder’s my uncle!” exclaimed Bessie, whom this grave episode had wearied mightily, “and Jamie, and Michael, and Tam. We’ve twa good hours yet, Jacky, before, ye need to gang hame, and Miss Anne winna be angry if you’re a thocht late. We’ll gang and let ye see the Fairy Well—it’s at the ither end o’ the wood. Eh, woman, ye dinna ken how bonnie it is!”

But Jacky had no heart for the Fairy Well, or the rude gallantry of Tam, and Michael, and Jamie. She was too full of the great intelligence she had gathered for her mistress. She drew her own conclusions, quickly enough, if not very clearly, but she saw at once that Anne would think it of the highest importance. How she knew so much we cannot tell—she could not have told herself. These electric thrills of intuition, which put the elf into possession of the most secret and guarded desires and wishes of her superiors, were as much a mystery to herself as to others. There were various mysteries about her—not the least of these being the reason why the spirit of a knight errant, of as delicate honor, and heroic devotion, as ever adorned the brightest age of chivalry, should have been endued with the singular, and by no means elegantly formed garment, of this girl’s dark elfin frame and humble place.

So Jacky with much weariness, physical and mental, endured the visit to the Fairy Well; and then under the safe conduct of Tam, Mrs. Young’s youngest son, and “convoyed” half way by Bessie and Michael, returned to Aberford. The night had fallen before she reached Miss Crankie’s house. Anne, newly returned from a long and ineffectual survey of Schole, had passively submitted to have candles placed upon her table by Miss Crankie’s servant. She still sat by the window, however, looking out upon that centre of mysterious interest. It was perfectly still—only a faint reflection of light upon the dark water told of a watcher in the high chamber of the desolate house.

Jacky entered, and Anne turned to ask her kindly how she had enjoyed her visit. “I dinna ken, Miss Anne,” said Jacky, “but if ye please—”

“What, Jacky?”

“Would ye let me draw down the blind, and put in your chair to the table, because I’ve something to tell you, Miss Anne.”

Anne consented immediately. The room looked, as dusky parlors will look by faint candle-light in the evenings of bright summer days, very dull and forlorn and melancholy. Anne seated herself smiling by the table; she expected some chronicle of little Bessie’s kindred, or at the utmost some confession of petty ill-doing, which burdened Jacky’s conscience. Jacky’s conscience was exceedingly tender; she did make such confessions sometimes.

“If ye please, Miss Anne,” began Jacky earnestly, “Bessie’s aunt kens Jean Miller.”

“And who is Jean Miller, Jacky?” said Anne, smiling.

“And if ye please, Miss Anne, Jean Miller was in the wood by the waterside, at the brae, where the road goes to the Milton farm, eighteen years ago, on the twenty first of June.”

It was Anne’s turn to start, and look up anxiously now. Jacky went on in the firm steadiness of strong excitement.

“And if ye please, Miss Anne, she saw a man; and it wasna Mr. —— it wasna the gentleman they ca’ young Redheugh—”

“Who was it, Jacky?”

“His face was whiter than white cloth, and he was like as if the blood was standing still in his veins, and he was running straight on, as if he neither saw the road nor who was looking at him; and as he ran, he wipit his brow, for a’ that he was whiter than death.”

Anne was walking through the room in burning agitation; she could not rest—now she came up to Jacky, as the girl made a pause for breath, and grasped her arm.

“Who was he, Jacky—who was he?”

“If ye please, Miss Anne, it was the gentleman at Schole. She called him Mr. Patrick Lillie.”

Anne put her hands up to her head, dizzy and stunned; she felt like one who had received a mighty shock, and scarcely knew either the instrument or the reality of it in the first extremity of its power. She did not say a word—she did not think—she sat down unconsciously on her chair, and pressed her hands to her head with some vague idea of crushing the dull indefinite pain out of it. Jacky stood beside her, pale, self-possessed, but trembling violently; the girl’s excitement had reached a white heat—intensely strong and still.

Deadly light and deadly darkness struggling for hopeless mastery—a goal so nearly won, and yet so utterly removed. A long, low cry of pain came from Anne’s parched lips; she had not strength or heart to inquire further; a fearful possibility came upon her now, which had never struck her mind before.

At length, when the violence of the first shock was moderated, she began again to question Jacky. Jean Miller’s explanation of the haggard looks and wild bewilderment of Norman’s friend composed, though it could not convince her. She must see him, this mysterious sufferer, must ascertain—standing before him face to face—what of this dark dread might be true, and what false. It would not leave her: before she had been alone for ten minutes, the deadly bewilderment had returned, and what to do she knew not!