CHAPTER IX.

“That man hath perfect blessedness,Who walketh not astray.”

The first verse was repeated, and Lilie stayed to remember the second.

“Eh,” cried Mrs. Melder, “hasna she come uncommon fast on? but I wish ye would speak to Jacky Morison, Miss Anne, she’s learning the bairn nonsense ballants and—”

“He shall be like a tree that grows,Near planted by a river,”

burst out Lilie triumphantly.

“Which in his season yields his fruit,And his leaf fadeth never.And all he doth shall prosper well—”

The child paused—accomplished the next three lines with prompting, and then made a stop.

“Lilie no mind now—Lilie show you the tree.”

Anne suffered herself to be drawn out—the tree which Lilie fancied must be the one meant in the Psalm, was an oak which stood upon a swelling hillock close by the Oran. When they came near, the child’s wandering attention was caught by some carving on the rude and gnarled trunk.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Anne read it, wonderingly:

“Norman R. R. Marion L.”

Beneath were two longer lines:

“Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways,The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest daysFade from our sight.”

and a date. The carvings were near the root, and might have been done by some one sitting on the grassy bank below. Anne had some difficulty in deciphering them, and when she had led her little charge home, returned alone to trace the moss-grown characters again. The date was seventeen years before—Norman R. R. Could it be possible that some other bore that name—or was it indeed a record of some bygone pleasant musing of her unhappy brother’s, before name, and fame, and fortune were lost in that dark crime—before the mark of Cain was sealed upon his brow.

And were there yet greater depths in this calamity than she knew, and more sufferers; the Marion who shared his happier thoughts—who was she? or how had Norman’s blight, so much more dreadful than death, fallen upon her?

The dusky December weeks passed on, and, on the last night of the year, a tall man, closely enveloped in a plaid, walked softly up the dark avenue towards the house of Strathoran. He seemed to know its turns and windings well, as keeping under covert of the thickesttrees, he hastily approached the house;—once near it, he crossed the path quickly to gain the obscurity of its shadow, and then walked round it several times without manifesting any desire of entering. It was a very dreary night—the ground was thoroughly soaked with recent rains, and heavy clouds drifted in dark masses over the sky, of whose dull leaden surface, and wading afflicted moon you could see occasional glimpses, as these gloomy hosts of vapors were parted by the wind. A fitful glance of the moon fell now and then upon the stranger’s face. It was pale and resolute, and rigid, like the face of one undergoing some terrible surgical operation, to endure which manfully his every nerve was strained. He paused at last opposite a brilliant window, and retreating backward, raised himself by aid of a tree, so that he could look in. Through the closed curtains he could see a party of gentlemen sitting at their wine—the sound of their laughter, and gay voices, reached him on his watch. With keen eyes he surveyed the unconscious revellers, marked every face, took in, as it seemed, every particular of the scene, and then descending, took his way again through the solitary avenue, and turning as before into a side path, reached the highway unseen. Onward he went, walking very quickly for full two dreary miles, and arrived at last not at any dwelling of man, but at a solitary graveyard, still and solemn, lying upon Oranside, in the midst of which rose the ruined walls of an ancient chapel, moss-grown, and clad with clinging ivy.—The alarm which called forth the parishioners of more southern districts, night after night, to watch their dead, had not reached the distant stillness of Strathoran, and the stranger entered unmolested and unseen. He directed his steps to the chapel, climbed the broken stair, and entered the small unroofed apartment, with its ruined walls, and trailing ivy, and floor of lettered flags, bearing upon them the names of those who slept below—for this was the burial-place of the long-descended Sutherlands of Strathoran. Another uncertain glance of the wan moon directed him to a marble tablet in the wall, by the side of which he stood long in the dreary silence, motionless and still, himself like some dark statue, mocking the dead with empty honor. Hugh Sutherland and Isabel his wife, lay underneath the watcher’s feet; and the son to whom they had left so fair a heritage, and who had visited their grave two twelvemonths since, bearing a name of universal honor, and looking forth upon a smiling future, through natural tears that became him well—stood there now, tearless and stern in the thick gloom of night—a houseless, joyless man.

“I have obeyed,” said Archibald Sutherland, leaning upon the ruined wall. “I have returned to see my father’s house in the hands of an alien to his blood—and now what remains?” His knees were bent upon the stone that covered the dust of father andof mother—his brow pressed to the tablet that chronicled their names; and the ruined man in his extremity, poured out his full heart into the ear of One who heareth always, and never more certainly than when the voice of supplication rises to Him “out of the depths.” “Who shall stand before thee if thou markest iniquity? yet is there forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared, and plenteous redemption.”

Yes,thatremained—omnipotent, over all, in His tender mercy, the God whose plentiful redemption encircles with its arms of divine compassion its every returning prodigal—the loving-kindness that turns no supplicant away. The sympathy most wonderful and strange of all, which “touches”—the heart of the Incarnate God with “a fellow-feeling for our infirmities!”—these remained—greater than all sorrows of the earth.

So with less sternness in his pale face, and less despair in his heart, Archibald Sutherland retraced his steps, and turned to the humble fisher’s house far down the Oran, the inhabitants of which had recently come to the district, and knew not either the name or the quality of the stranger whom they had reluctantly agreed to shelter for the night.

He had hovered that same evening in cover of the darkness, in the neighborhood of the Tower—had passed the hospitable walls of Woodsmuir, and looked through the bare trees at Merkland; but drawing back in painful shame, had not dared to enter, or make himself known to any of them all—they all had households, kindred, warm friends about them. He only was alone.

The next night, with his plaid wrapped as closely about him as before, and serving as a disguise, he passed along Oranside in the darkness, turning his steps to the Tower. He could not delay longer—already perhaps in the bitter pain of last night’s trial, he had delayed too long, and in passing those wide-spreading fields and plantations, once his own, but in which now the meanest hind dwelling among them had more share than he, he felt that last night’s trial might be indefinitely prolonged. He came to the Tower at last, and found it also gay and full of light. The hall-door was open, and within stood a knot of servants. The door of Mrs. Euphan Morison’s snug room was ajar, and showed Duncan from Merkland, and Mr. Coulter’s grave man-servant sitting comfortably by the fireside, while the Falcon’s Craig groom, and Mr. Foreman’s lad, and one or two younger attendants, stood among Mrs. Catherine’s maid-servants in the hall listening to the music above.

“Jacky, ye monkey, shut that door,” cried Mrs. Euphan Morison, “Idle hizzies clavering nonsense, and decent folk like to get their death o’ cauld. I wad advise ye to tak hame some o’ thathorehound-balsam wi’ ye, Duncan—it’s uncommon guid for hoarseness. I made it with my ain hand.”

Jacky darted forward to do her mother’s bidding; and Archibald felt the girl’s keen eye pierce his disguise in a moment.—She paused, looked at him. “If ye please, will I tell Mrs. Catherine?”

“Yes—but wait, Jacky, let me go up stairs.”

Jacky went gravely forward before him, and drawing his plaid more closely over his face, Archibald followed her unobserved.—The girl led him to a small apartment which opened into that well-remembered drawing-room, and without saying a word, left him there. He sat down and waited. Ah! these gay sounds of mirth and music, how bitterly they mock sick hearts. A sort of hope had inspired him, as he felt himself once more in shelter of these stately walls, but now, within hearing of the sounds of pleasure and rejoicing, his heart again sank within him. There was no place for him—homeless and hopeless, there. As he listened, a simple voice began to sing—words chiming strangely in with his changed fortunes.

“Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways,The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest daysFade from our sight.A dimness steals upon the earth and heaven,Blended of gloom and light;Shuts its soft eyelid o’er day’s azure levin,And shades with its soft tints the glories of sweet evenTo sober-toned night.“From his deep cradle the woods amongHis russet robes waving free,The Oran with his kindly tongue,Is travelling to the sea.He rushes to the ocean old,In sparkling wave and foam,And out into that trackless woldBears the kind voice of home.Wayfaring man, far, on the seaListen how he calls to thee!“Warm household lights are shining outHis rugged channel o’er.Ill plants of malice, and guile, and doubtsNe’er blossom on his shore.There is Peace in her matron’s gown and hood.Her footsteps never roam,And Hope is in pleasant neighborhoodAnd strength is strongest at homeThy foot is weary, thy cheek is wan,Come to thy kindred, wayfaring man“Oran’s ringing voice he hears,The great sea waves among,To yon far shore the ripple bearsThe Oran’s kindly tongue.Yet he labors on, and travels far,For years of toil must glide,Before he sees the even starRise calm on Oranside.Speed thy labor o’er land and sea,Home and kindred are waiting for thee!“The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest days,Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways,Fade from our sight.And night and day he labors as he can,Far from home’s kindly light.His foot is weary, and his cheek is wan,Ah! pray, young hearts, for the sad wayfaring manLaboring this night.”

“From his deep cradle the woods amongHis russet robes waving free,The Oran with his kindly tongue,Is travelling to the sea.He rushes to the ocean old,In sparkling wave and foam,And out into that trackless woldBears the kind voice of home.Wayfaring man, far, on the seaListen how he calls to thee!

“Warm household lights are shining outHis rugged channel o’er.Ill plants of malice, and guile, and doubtsNe’er blossom on his shore.There is Peace in her matron’s gown and hood.Her footsteps never roam,And Hope is in pleasant neighborhoodAnd strength is strongest at homeThy foot is weary, thy cheek is wan,Come to thy kindred, wayfaring man

“Oran’s ringing voice he hears,The great sea waves among,To yon far shore the ripple bearsThe Oran’s kindly tongue.Yet he labors on, and travels far,For years of toil must glide,Before he sees the even starRise calm on Oranside.Speed thy labor o’er land and sea,Home and kindred are waiting for thee!

“The gentle hours fall soft, the brightest days,Like autumn leaves upon the forest ways,Fade from our sight.And night and day he labors as he can,Far from home’s kindly light.His foot is weary, and his cheek is wan,Ah! pray, young hearts, for the sad wayfaring manLaboring this night.”

The air was very simple beginning and ending in a low pathetic strain, and with a quicker measure for the intervening verses—but the music was but a soft chiming breath, bearing along the words. Archibald Sutherland leaned his head upon his hands, the burden floating dizzily through his mind. Alas! for him, beginning his wayfaring so painfully, neither home nor kindred waited. He heard a step approach—a hand gently open the door of communication, and raised his head, a sad calmness possessing him.—Among the gay hearts, divided from him only by that wall, there might be some one, whose prayer of gentle pity, would indeed rise for the wayfaring man.

ANNERosswas seated near Mrs. Catherine’s piano when Alice Aytoun took her place at it timidly, and placing a sheet of manuscript music before her, began her song. Anne started in tremulous wonder as it commenced. Most strange to hear these words repeated by a living voice at all—stranger still that they should fall from Alice Aytoun’s. With breathless interest she listened as the lines flowed on. The wayfaring man in toil, and danger, and sorrow, hearing in the ripple of the great sea, far away in some strange country, the kindly call of the Oran to home and kindred. Her cheeks grew pale—her lips quivered. How could this be twined into Norman’s history?—or was Alice unconsciously murmuring out the low, sad prayer of its conclusion for her father’s murderer?

The tears were swelling in Anne’s eyes as the song concluded; and Ralph Falconer who stood near had addressed to her some sneering compliment on her sensibility, when Jacky stole behindher chair, and whispered something in her ear. Anne recollected herself instantly, and, approaching Mrs. Catherine, communicated to her Jacky’s intelligence. Mrs. Catherine started—rose from her seat—wavered a moment, and then restraining her emotions, sat resolutely down again.

“See, Anne, there is the key of the little room. Take the dyvour there—I will come myself when I can. Tell him that—.” Anne turned to obey. “And, child,—bid Euphan Morison have a good fire kindled in the red room, and tell Andrew he is to hold himself ready to wait on Mr. Archibald—and, child—be kindly to the unhappy youth. It behoves me to be stern myself, but there is no such bondage upon you.”

When Archibald Sutherland lifted his head it was Anne Ross who stood before him, her eyes shining wet, her face full of sympathetic sorrow. She held out her hand, and advanced towards him.

“Mr. Sutherland—Archibald.”

“Anne!” said the broken man. They shook hands; there needed no more speech; perfect and cordial sympathy, of no exaggerated sort, but such as does sometimes, and should always subsist between those who have passed childhood and early youth together, was between them in a moment. There was no story told—no compassion claimed; but, in the pressure of Anne’s hand, and the subdued kindness of her look, the full heart felt itself eased, and leaned upon the unexpressed sympathy as with the confidence of nearest kindred. There were no words; but Anne knew how Archibald’s spirit was wading like the moon in clouds and darkness; and Archibald felt that Anne, in the confidence of ancient kindness, was ready to hope and believe all things for his final deliverance and welfare.

“You will not go in,” said Anne, gently. “There is a large party, and some strangers.”

“No—no,” said Archibald. “I regret now that I came at all to-night. I would be a strange spectre, disturbing your merrymaking, Anne.”

“Merrymaking! With some of us, at least, there is not much of that,” said Anne. “Lewis is home, Archibald; you must seehim. But now will you come with me to the little room? Mrs. Catherine will come herself immediately.”

“To the little room?”

“Yes; the house is full, and all the other apartments are occupied,” said Anne; “that is all. Mrs. Catherine has been looking for you, Archibald.”

They left the room together, and, to the great wonder of the congregated listeners in the hall, descended the stair, and turned through a dark passage to Mrs. Catherine’s place of especialretirement—the little room. Archibald entered, and Anne, leaving him, hastened to Mrs. Euphan Morison’s apartment, to convey to her Mrs. Catherine’s orders, in immediate execution of which a reluctant maid was hurried up stairs.

And Archibald Sutherland seated himself alone, fearing the interview which Mrs. Catherine made still more important and solemn by ordaining that it should take placethere. The firm, dark face of Sholto Douglas looked down upon him from the wall, and fascinated his restless eyes. There seemed a lofty purity of reproof in those fine lineaments, over which the pallor of death had fallen, before Mrs. Catherine’s only brother had told out an equal number of years with himself. Sholto Douglas, in his early prime of manhood, laid in a foreign grave, the odor of a stainless name, and strong faith, numbering him among those just, who shall be held in everlasting remembrance. Archibald Sutherland, in the wreck of hope and fortune, and good fame, preserving barely life. Ah! who would not rather have chosen the solitary grave in far Madeira, in which all sin and uncertainty lay dead, and where, above flowery sod, and gray headstone, there blossomed one sublime and stedfast hope, as sure and true as heaven.

Archibald could not bear, what seemed the cold reproving scrutiny of that noble pictured face, and laying his arms upon the table, he bent down his head upon them. He fancied he could hear the music and gay voices still. Anne had left him. Mrs. Catherine lingered in her coming; even in this household, the only one in the cold world around him, in which he thought himself secure of welcome, the ruined man was nothing; bitter thoughts swelled up within his worn and wearied spirit, despair came back like a flood upon his heart; exhausted in health, broken in mind, disgraced in name—what remained for the once joyous heir of Strathoran, but poverty, neglect, and death.

Large gray eyes, made larger by the dew that swelled beneath their lids, were looking on him, as thus he sank further and further, into that horror of great darkness. Mrs. Catherine, whose slow step he had not heard approaching, in the tumult of his own thoughts, stood by him silently; her strong features moved by the contest between severity and tenderness.

“Archibald Sutherland,” she said, harshly. The young man started, but did not lift his head. “Archie, my man!” Her large hand was upon his hair, stroking it softly, as if the head it covered had been a child’s. He looked up. “You have sinned against your own spirit, and in the sight of God; but you are home in your own country, and under a kindly roof. Archie Sutherland, give me your hand, and let bygones be bygones between us.”

There was a silence of some minutes, during which, Mrs. Catherine grasped Archibald’s trembling hand in one of her’s, and withthe other, smoothed down his dark hair, wet as it was, with the cold dew of mental pain. “Archie!” she repeated, “there have many waves passed over your head since I laid my hand upon it last; waves of sorrow and shame, and waves of sin, Archie Sutherland—but yet—be silent, and listen to me—yet I pray, as I prayed when we parted, that the blessing of the God of our fathers may be about you, boy, at this time, and for ever! Look up, and hear me. Let trouble, and toil, and hardship come, as the Lord will; lift up your head in His presence, Archie Sutherland, and plight me your word, that in your further warfare, manfully and honestly, and in the strength of His name, ye will resist sin. I fear no other thing in this earth, be it the sorest pain that ever wrung mortal flesh; but with a deadly fear do I tremble for that! That you will strive against it night and day, that you will give place to it—no, not for an hour—that wherever ye may be, in joy, or in tribulation, in peace, or in strife—ye will remember the One name whereby we can be saved, and resist iniquity, if need be unto blood. Your word, Archie Sutherland, I am waiting for your word.”

And solemnly, with lifted hand, and tremulous voice, the word was plighted. “With all the strength of a sad man, honestly, and in truth. Remembering the One name whereby we can be saved, and in the strength of Him who has overcome sin. God succor me!”

The flush faded from his thin cheek, his hand fell. Mrs. Catherine stood still by his side, in the same attitude, her hand lying fondly upon his hair, and there was again an interval of silence. “The angel that redeemed me from all evil, bless the lad. Archie, be of good cheer. Who kens the ways of the Lord? We are tried, but we are not forsaken.”

Mrs. Catherine seated herself opposite him, and looked into his face. “You are white and thin, Archie, spent with that weary trouble—and you have been walking upon the damp road in the night air, like an imprudent lad, as you are, and will have wet feet, doubtless. Go up to your room like a good heart, and change them, and then, Archie, my man, we are all friends together. Come in, and see Lewis Ross, and the rest of them, for I have a houseful to-night.”

“I am not fit for any company,” said the young man. “I should go in among them like a ghost. Mrs. Catherine, I have obeyed you to the letter. Last night, I saw my father’s house in the possession of strangers. Last night, I saw that man in my father’s seat. I have not shrunk from the full trial, and now there is no probation so hard, no struggle so bitter, but I am willing to embrace it, if I may but have a prospect of redeeming what I havesinfully lost; although it be only to die when all is done, beneath the roof where my fathers have lived and died before me.”

A sympathetic light kindled in Mrs. Catherine’s eye; but the wasted young man beside her, needed soothing and rest, as she saw, and after her own fashion she comforted him. “Archie, I am in years, and there is no wish so near my heart, as to see your work done before I go hence; but to do your work you must be strong, and to be strong, ye must rest; this is no a time to speak of dying. I ken no man in this world, that has a chain to life as strong as you have yourself, Archie Sutherland, if it be the Lord’s will, and truly, I have little hope of a man, with a labor before him, turning to death for ease and idleness. I doubt not, there are many years before you yet, blyther than these; but we will have time to speak of that hereafter. Go up to your room, Archie. It will mind ye of your school days, to have Andrew about you again, and come down when you are ready, to the little east room to me. You must even be a good bairn, and do my bidding to-night.”

Mrs. Catherine rose. Archibald rose too, in obedience. The strong old lady took the arm of the weak and exhausted young man, and half supporting him, went with him herself to the door of the red-room, where a cheerful fire was shining upon the warm color of curtains and furniture, while Andrew, with his grey hair dressed, and his best livery donned, in honor of the company, stood waiting at the door: the same room, with all its arrangements perfectly unchanged! the same friendly and well-known face, that had been wont to hover about him in kindly attendance in those joyous boyish days! The prodigal had returned home—the despairing man had entered into an atmosphere rich and warm with hope. Archibald threw himself into the old fire-side chair, and hid his face again in his hands, overpowered with a momentary weakness, from whose tears the strength of steadfast resolution and grateful purpose sprang up boldly, rising over bitterness and ruin and grief in sober triumph, the beginning of better days.

But Archibald did not make his appearance in Mrs. Catherine’s drawing-room that night. With the shame of his downfall strong upon him, and feeling so bitterly the disruption of all the ties which formerly bound him in kindly neighborship to these prosperous people, who knew his fall and humiliation alone, and did not know his painful struggles and sore repentance, he shrank from meeting them; and when, having entered the little east-room, he told Mrs. Catherine what pain her kind wish to cheer him would inflict upon him, she did not repeat her commands.

“But I will meet ye half-way, Archie,” she said, “Robert Ferguson, your good friend and honorable steward is laboring at this time redding up the tangled odds and ends of your affairs, and itis meet you should see him and render him right thanks for his good service. You ought to have gone to Woodsmuir first. I know not any mortal you are so much indebted to. Go your ways to the library and shut the door—I will send over for Mr. Ferguson. Na—you shall not stir over my door in a damp night till you have won back your strength again—and Mr. Foreman is here, Archie; would you like me to send him down? or are you able to stand it?”

“Quite able,” said Archibald, hastily. “Ask Mr. Foreman to come to me, Mrs. Catherine. With all your kindness, I yet cannot rest till I see something definite before me. I have lost too much time already, and Mr. Foreman is an old and kind friend. I do not deserve so many. Let him come to me, if, indeed, he will come—I need counsel sorely.”

Mrs. Catherine made a gesture of impatience. “And I am trysted with these young fools, and cannot win down beside you to put in my word. Mr. Foreman will come blythely, Archie—go your ways, and be careful of shutting the door, that you may not be disturbed. Andrew, let Johnnie Halflin ride to Woodsmuir without a moment’s delay. If he tarries on the road, it will be at his peril; and give my compliments to Mr. Ferguson—or stay—Archie, write a word yourself.”

Established in the library, Archibald wrote a hasty note to Mr. Ferguson, and in a moment after heard Johnnie Halflin, with many arguments, persuading an unwilling pony to face the damp, chill blast, which swept so mournfully through the naked woods, and over the sighing Oran, and at last gallopping off on the road to Woodsmuir, the footsteps of his shaggy little steed sounding in unsteady leaps, as it struggled to turn its head from the wind, and regain its comfortable stable.

Various groups in Mrs. Catherine’s drawing room were whispering already reasons for her absence.

“I am afraid, Mrs. Catherine is not well,” said Mrs. Coulter, sympathetically. “Her face has had a look of trouble all the night.”

“Perhaps it is some unpleasant visitor,” suggested Mr. Bairnsfather. “I thought she was agitated.”

“Mrs. Catherine agitated,” cried Walter Foreman, “you might as soon shake the Tower.”

“Hold your peace, Sir,” said his father. “These young men are constantly speaking of things they don’t comprehend. Mrs. Catherine feels much more deeply than you will ever do.”

Walter looked up amazed. His father’s eyes were uneasily fixed upon the door; his face anxious and full of care.

“Ay,” said Mrs. Bairnsfather, shaking her head pathetically, “it has been a great grief to her this downcome of young Strathoran.A fine life he led in Paris, by all accounts; he will surely never come home, to be a burden on Mrs. Catherine.”

Mr. Foreman turned round impatiently, as if to answer, but evidently checking with some difficulty an angry reply, looked again towards the door.

“Poor Archibald,” said the kindly Mrs. Coulter, “this is not a time for his friends to desert him. Dear me, there is Mr. Ambler persuading Jeanie to sing. Jeanie, my dear, mind what a cold you have got.”

“Just, ‘Auld Robin Gray,’ for the benefit of the seniors,” said Mr. Ambler, “the first notes will call Mrs. Catherine back again.”

Jeanie Coulter seated herself at the piano, Walter Foreman took his place behind her. The “seniors” prepared to listen—the younger part of the company to whisper and exchange smiles and glances, the long ballad being too much for their patience.

“Do you think it can be young Strathoran who has arrived?” whispered Mrs. Bairnsfather.

Mrs. Coulter nodded impatiently, resenting the interruption of Jeanie’s song.

“Not that new fangled nonsense, Jeanie my dear,” said Mrs. Catherine, entering. “You ken the tune Lady Anne wrote it for—a right breath to carry forth the story on—not that—as if sick hearts were like to play with a melody, and did not just seek the needful breath of music to send forth their sorrows withal.”

“You knew Lady Anne, Mrs. Catherine?” said Jeanie Coulter, playing with the keys, and finding this a proper opportunity for the hesitation and coyness necessary to set off her pretty voice and tasteful singing.

“Ay, I knew Lady Anne—you all ken that; sing your ballad, Jeanie Coulter, and do not keep us waiting. Mr. Foreman, I have a word to say to you.”

The word was said. Mr. Foreman in haste, and not without agitation, left the room, and Mrs. Catherine herself stood near the piano listening to the music. Jeanie Coulter did the ballad—than which it seems to us, there is no history of more perfect beauty and pathos in all the stores of our Scottish tongue, rich though it be in such—full justice. The tremulous sad music stole through the room, arresting even Alice, though she was rising then nearly to the climax of her girlish happiness—”I wish I were dead, but I’m no like to dee.” What strange avalanche of trouble could ever bring such words as these from Alice Aytoun’s lips? It was impossible.

Yet under that same roof was one, whose youthful beginning had been more prosperous than Alice Aytoun’s, schooling himself to patience, as again and again the pain of his past transgressionscame back upon him like a flood. Agent and factor had both taken their place beside him in the library—the lamp shone upon the somewhat sharp profile of Mr. Foreman, with its deepset acute eyes and deliberative look—upon the healthful, hardy, honest face of Mr. Ferguson, browned by exposure, and instinct with earnest sympathy and kindness—and upon Archibald Sutherland’s wan and downcast countenance, with its mark of past sickness, and present melancholy humility; they were discussing his future career.

“I will tell you what I propose for myself, Mr. Archibald,” said Mr. Ferguson, “My occupation is gone, as you know, in respect to the estate of Strathoran. Now there is Loelyin and Lochend the entailed lands—you will remember that Alexander Semple is in them, and there are three years of his lease to run; but Semple has little capital and no enterprise, and I think would be glad to get rid of his lease and try a more productive farm. It is poor land.”

Archibald looked up vaguely, not seeing what the factor’s remarks tended to:

“The land is poor but improvable,” continued Mr. Ferguson; “and the farm of Woodsmuir, which I have occupied myself, is in excellent condition. I believe that with capital and perseverance, the value of these entailed lands might be more than doubled, and Mr. Coulter, a practical man of high authority, bears me out.”

Archibald shook his head sadly:

“We have no capital, Mr. Ferguson.”

“We have thought of that,” said Mr. Ferguson; “but your friends—Mrs. Catherine for example—have, and this would be no temporary relief, but a certain benefit.”

“I see,” said Archibald; “and yet it is impossible. My most kind friends, do not think it is pride—of all things there is none that would become me worse than that; but I am quite unfit for this trial. I question if now, with my mind excited and unsettled as it has been, I could endure the placid routine of a farmer’s life anywhere. I have rather been looking forward to unceasing labor of a more engrossing kind, as the only wholesome discipline for me; buthereit is impossible—to live within sight of Strathoran, to reap the bitter fruits of my folly day by day, without intermission, upon my own alienated land—it would kill me—I could not do it, I could do anything but that.”

The factor had been waiting eagerly, with his hand lifted.—”Certainly not—surely not—we never could think of such a thing, Mr. Archibald. You must hear out my plan. What I propose is, that I, who have some knowledge of agriculture, and a taste for it, should take these farms into my own hand. I haveconsulted Mr. Coulter, and I will have the full benefit of his advice; and I am confident of Mrs. Catherine’s assistance. In such an investment, capital is perfectly secure, and subject to no vicissitudes—very few, at least; and I fully believe, that, carefully and scientifically cultivated, we may quadruple the poor two hundred a year it yields now: so that, in addition to your own success, which I have no doubt is certain, if you throw your whole strength into any profession, there will be, in not very many years, a property of seven or eight hundred a year waiting for you. The original property, Mr. Archibald, with opportunity of adding to it, perhaps, bit by bit, from the rest of the estate—”

Archibald Sutherland extended his hand silently, and grasped his factor’s. “My punishment is to be overpowered with undeserved kindness,” he said, his voice trembling. “My obligations to you already transcend thanks, Mr. Ferguson, and yet you increase them.”

Mr. Ferguson resumed his statement hastily, as if ashamed of the emotion which wet his own eyes, and brought a kindred tremor to his voice. “I have grown grey in the district, Mr. Archibald, and would like ill to leave it now. My whole family were born in Woodsmuir. I have long been a theoretical farmer, you know; and now I will get some of my favorite crotchets put into practice. We shall come into collision Mr. Coulter and I,” continued the factor, with a kind of hysterical attempt at a joke, which broke down woefully; “but we will, at least, have a fair field for our respective hobbies; and the prospect of so great an increase, Mr. Archibald, is worth working for.”

“Yes, to the worker,” said Archibald; “but what justice can there be Mr. Ferguson, in you devoting years to increase my income? The fruit of your improvements is clearly your own—not mine.”

“There! there!” said Mr. Foreman, breaking in impatiently.—”The fact is, Ferguson, that you should have just put in your proposal without any preface to make it hazy. Mr. Ferguson takes Alexander Semple’s place, at Alexander Semple’s rent, Mr. Sutherland—that’s his proposal—continues so, till his improvements are fairly and honestly paying, and then remains your tenant at the advanced rent: we will see that he does not offer you too little. As for the capital, that is our concern; I will undertake that.”

Archibald Sutherland said some incoherent words of thanks, he did not himself know what—neither did his hearers, as Mr. Ferguson shook his grey eye-lash free of some encumbering moisture, and Mr. Foreman coughed, and cleared his throat. There was a brief pause.

“And for yourself, Mr. Archibald?” said the lawyer.

“For myself, I do not know. I have formed no definite plan. Give me your counsel: I am ready to do anything.”

“The bar?” suggested Mr. Foreman.

“Medicine?” ventured the factor.

Archibald shook his head. “I am no longer a youth, and could ill spare years now for study. Do you know what a great work I am pledged to Mr. Foreman? No less than winning back what I have lost, and doing it in Mrs. Catherine’s lifetime. You smile. It looks like a sick fancy, does it not?—yet it is a fancy that stirs me in every vein. I must work, gentlemen—I must work; how hardly I do not care; work for mere mercenary gain. I shall not gain honor with my schoolfellow Robert, Mr. Ferguson; that is beyond my reach. I must toil to the utmost of my strength to regain my birthright. I can afford to lose no time.”

Mr. Foreman had smiled gravely when Archibald began, but the smile settled down into a look of earnest attention before he concluded. He thought the hope futile, no doubt; but it was a hope: and his was not the hand to snatch it rudely from the grasp of a fallen man.

“Business?” said Mr. Ferguson, half aloud. “He must be embarked in business—but how?”

“Listen to me,” said Archibald, becoming stronger, as it seemed, when his own fate came under discussion. “My friends, I must go abroad; I can neither rest nor work well at home—at this time, at least. Let me go alone, as humbly as may be. I will put myself under mercantile training at first, if you think it necessary. My own idea is—I have some poor pride, perhaps, in letting you see that I am not too proud for my fallen fortunes—that I should get a clerk’s situation in some commercial house abroad—I do not care where—and work my way upward, as I can. I have no money; and what bare influence I could command, would help me little, I fancy. Let me make this experiment, with no adventitious help of patronage or introduction. If I fail, I will promise to return upon your hands again, trusting that your kindness will counsel the unhappy waif once more; but I hope not to fail. All the details remain to be considered.—When or how I am to endeavor to begin, I have not thought; and for whatever your kindness and better knowledge can suggest, I am in your hands.”

Neither of his grave counsellors spoke for some minutes; at last, Mr. Foreman said: “You are right, Mr. Archibald. I thought of that myself, formerly, but imagined foolishly, that you would shrink from trade. Your resolution is proper and wise; but remember—I do not wish to discourage you, but there are only a very few, who rise from the class of clerks into that of merchant princes. We are apt, in these days, to form mercantileromances for ourselves; there are some very wonderful instances, I grant, but they are rare.”

“As in all other professions,” said Mr. Ferguson, watching the changes of Archibald’s face anxiously; “but talent and vigor still more rarely remain in the humblest class. You are wearied, Mr. Archibald; let us adjourn this discussion. We can meet in Portoran in a day or two, if you are able,” continued the factor, turning with all the solicitude of a nurse to his late patient, “if you are sure you are able.”

And with that agreement, Archibald, indeed thoroughly exhausted and worn out, parted with his kind advisers and retired to his room, where he fell asleep in dreamy peace, and strange unwonted quiet, in the pleasant, ruddy twilight, which the fire made, as it glimmered in its shooting lights, and depths of fantastic shadow, through the familiar room.

The slight excitement of Archibald’s arrival over, Anne returned to the company, with Alice Aytoun’s song still ringing in her ear. Strange it was, how every passing event seemed to have some link of incoherent connection with Norman’s terrible history. The stranger child in Mrs. Melder’s cottage; the unconscious Alice; the magic threads were extending themselves in all directions. Anne almost feared to see new faces, to make new friends. Norman’s image was growing before her eyes, filling up the whole horizon of that dim future. If she should meet himself! the wandering Cain might, with a strange fascination, such as she had read of, seek his own birthplace, ere he died; the idea was fearful—a constant haunting dread, surrounding her like a mist wherever she went.

The evening wore on, and as the guests began to disperse, Anne, in virtue of her standing in the household, had various parting courtesies to pay; to stand at the hall door, while Mrs. Coulter’s carriage was packed with the many members of her family; to see Miss Falconer away, and Mrs. Bairnsfather; and when she returned to look for Lewis, the drawing-room was nearly empty. Lewis was not there, neither was Alice Aytoun. The door communicating with the little east room was ajar, and Anne entered, seeking her brother. The room was dimly lighted with one candle. Who stood at its further end? Lewis Ross and Alice Aytoun, hand in hand. Anne stood silent, on the threshold, in chill, fear and apprehension, her head bent forward, her eyes fixed upon them. Little Alice, drooping, blushing, leaning on her companion. Lewis, triumphant, proud, meeting his sister’s gaze with a smiling defiance. Anne stood still, seeing all, and could not speak. In another moment, Alice had glided towards her, thrown her slight arms round her waist, and was clinging to her like a child.

“Anne, be her sister,” said Lewis, with unusual emotion. Anne smiled a sickly smile, as in a painful dream, laid her hand unconsciously upon the girl’s fair hair, felt Alice start, and shiver at the touch of her cold fingers, and then, hastily disengaging herself, left the room, her very brain reeling, leaving Lewis enraged, and Alice grieved and alarmed, in the very fulness of her joy. It was all over now; the fatal engagement was made, and what remained but to blight the girlish gladness, and pour upon Lewis’s startled ears, the knowledge of that fatal crime, which stood like a spectre between his betrothed and him.

LEWISRossand his sister walked home together in silence and alienation. Lewis was sullenly indignant, while Anne, still overpowered by that whirl of agitation, pain and fear, felt grateful for Duncan’s officious attendance with his lanthorn, which precluded any conversation of a private kind, between her brother and herself. In her first shock and bewilderment, she knew not what to do—whether to communicate her secret at once, or to delay until she herself knew the terrible story more perfectly. She determined on the latter course, before they reached Merkland, and pained still further by her brother’s averted looks, and sullen silence, whispered: “Lewis, forgive me, I knew not what I was doing,” as they entered the house. Lewis took no notice, but went angrily into the parlor, in which his mother usually sat. A fit of ill-humor had prevented Mrs. Ross from accompanying them to the Tower—the same cause had afflicted her with headache, and sent her to her room, full two hours before they returned home, and to Anne’s satisfaction, there was no family intercourse of any kind that night.

Once safe in the shelter of her own apartment, she sat through the dead hours of that chill January night, laboring to form some plan for her further proceedings. She could not concentrate her mind upon them—shooting off, now here, now there, those floods of distempered thoughts refused that bondage—now called back from a long and vivid picturing of Norman’s desolate and hopeless way, and Norman’s blighted life—now from recalling in strange caprice the girlish gaiety and sunny future of Alice Aytoun, dwelling upon its bright particulars, as if to exaggerate the gloom that now lowered over the gladness of those youthful days. The host of indefinite and conflicting purposes, which terminated all these discursivewanderings of thought, would not be reconciled. Crowding about her like so many phantoms, they even stifled the voice of her appeal to that One counsellor from whom it was Anne Ross’s constant wont to seek wisdom and guidance. Confused words, meaningless and often repeated, swelled up from her heart, constantly—a mere vacant cry of agony—for her mind was wandering all the while, from point to point, in aimless and bewildered speed.

With but the slight difference, that, for an hour or two, these confused thoughts, remaining as active as before, took upon them the yet more fantastic garb of dreams; her mind continued in the same state of excited agitation during the whole night, and it was only when the chill morning began to break, grey and faint, through the dark clouds of the east, that springing from her feverish sleep and unhappy fancies together, Anne girded herself for the work that lay before her. To see Mrs. Catherine, and ascertain beyond doubt that Alice was the daughter of that Aytoun who fell by Norman’s hand—that seemed her first step. To learn as fully and clearly as might be the particulars of the tragedy itself, and if possible, to get possession of Norman’s letter to her father, which Mrs. Ross had mentioned, and which, with foolish procrastination for which she now blamed herself, Anne had shrunk from seeking. If she had but accomplished these necessary preliminaries, Anne hoped that her mind might acquire more coherence, and that she might be able to resolve what was best to be done, for making known the secret to Alice and Lewis—the two individuals most deeply concerned.

Dressing herself hastily, she left Merkland, and took the path up Oranside, which led to the Tower. Anne was privileged to have admittance at all times, and knew that Mrs. Catherine was, comparatively, an early riser. The path was damp and slippery—the morning coming in, in clinging garments of wet mist, grey, drizzling and disconsolate, with blasts of thin rain, sweeping now and then in her face.

Mrs. Catherine was seated in her small dressing room, which was immediately over “the little room”—and like it looked out upon the bare ascent of the hill behind the Tower. She was dressed, all but the large soft grey shawl which her stately attendant Mrs. Elspeth Henderson was carefully unfolding; and seated in an easy chair by the fireside, was having her usual half-hour’s gossip with her “gentlewoman.”

“And so you think Anne Ross is looking ill, Elspat,” said Mrs. Catherine; “it’s my hope you and your wise daughter have no design upon the poor bairn. Mind, I will have no doctoring of my Anne. I believe Euphan Morison is crazy!—my best cow in the deadthraw with her abominations! I will not have it, Elspat,though she is your daughter. My household shall be poisoned with physic at the will of no woman.”

“Euphan walks according to her lights, Madam,” responded Mrs. Elspat; “but if ye ask my opinion, I would say that Miss Ross needit spiritual physic, and no temporal: the bitter herbs o’ repentance and grace, and no camomile and wormwood—though I hold with Euphan doubtless that the last are of service in their place.”

“Hold with Euphan—a great authority truly!” said Mrs. Catherine. “Spiritual physic, bitter herbs—ye are all fools together, the whole household and lineage of you! Not that I am saying we are, any of us, above grace and repentance—forbid that such a profane thing should come from my lips, but—Elspat Henderson what are you groaning at?—the bairn Anne is more simple and devout than the whole tribe of you.”

Mrs. Elspat Henderson looked meek and injured.

“It would ill become me, Madam, to maintain that anything is, when it’s your pleasure to say itis not. Nevertheless, it’s my privilege to lift up my testimony to the iniquity of human-kind, all and haill. We are all perverse, yea we have gone out of the way—we have together become unprofitable; there is none—”

“Woman, woman, hold your peace,” said Mrs. Catherine, “as if I was like to hold inherent ill of light import—me that have seen its outbreaking, time after time, in lives that the world called pure, and no less in my own. Carry your testimony to your Maker’s presence, Elspat Henderson, and mind that ye stand sole there, and cannot glide out of your ain private evil in the cover of a ‘we.’ And what is your special ill-will at Anne Ross? what is her misdeed the now?”

Mrs. Elspat gave a prolonged sigh.

“That ye should have so puir an opinion of me, as to throw such a blame on your auld and faithful servant.Me, a special ill-will at the young lady! it’s my hope I will never be so far left to mysel, frail vessel as I am.”

Mrs. Catherine groaned.

“Is it your purpose to drive me out of all patience, Elspat Henderson? Truly, if the three of you are no enough to banish peace from any mortal, I am no judge. What cause of censure have you, then, if I am no to say ill-will against my Anne? What has she done?”

Mrs. Elspat coughed solemnly.

“Miss Ross has been looking uncommon white and thin, Madam, since ever the day that Miss Aytoun came to the Tower; and if ye’ll notice yoursel how she looks steadfast at Miss Alice, and syne grows white, as if she would swarf away, you’ll see that what I am saying is true, neither less nor mair.”

Mrs. Catherine seemed struck, and did not answer immediately. Her attendant approached with the shawl. Mrs. Catherine took it, and wrapped it round her.

“Ay!” she exclaimed at last, “and what does your wisdom make of that?”

“If there is a sore evil under the sun,” said Mrs. Elspat, oracularly, “it is envy, and a jealous ill-will at folk better gifted and better likit than oursels. Far be it from me to lay a hard word upon a young lady like Miss Ross, but—”

“Elspat Henderson!” said Mrs. Catherine, angrily, “your learned daughter will be waiting on you for her breakfast. Go your ways down the stair, and, between this time and the morn, look me out the Psalm that gives a righteous reward to him that slanders his neighbor privately. I know well David, honest man, let his pen fall ajee when he wrote it ‘him,’ and no ‘her’—and see that you coin no more scandal out of the ill mists of your own brain to rouse my wrath withal. You may leave the room, Mrs. Elspat Henderson—I have no further need of you.”

The cowed attendant withdrew, and Mrs. Catherine seated herself in stately indignation. By-and-by her face grew calmer, graver. The suggestion awakened a new train of thought, and roused anxieties and fears, hitherto, in the pre-occupation of her mind, never dreamed of. Anne Ross’s light tap at the door came when she was deeply engaged in these, and Mrs. Catherine rose and opened it with some anger remaining in her face.

“Child!” she exclaimed; “at this time in the morning—through the mist—and with trouble in your face! What is the matter?” Anne entered, and sat down to recover her breath, and re-arrange her thoughts. Mrs. Catherine closed the door carefully, and, resuming her seat, looked in Anne’s face and waited.

“There is nothing the matter, Mrs. Catherine,” said Anne, smiling faintly; “that is—they are all well in Merkland, and I—I just wanted to consult you—to ask your advice.”

“Speak out, child,” said Mrs. Catherine. “It is something not common that has brought you here this morning. Tell me what it is. Does it concern Archie?”

“No, no,” said Anne. “Something far more—I mean just a little matter connected with ourselves—I should say myself, rather, for neither Mrs. Ross nor Lewis know my errand, Mrs. Catherine—”

“Child, speak out,” exhorted her friend.

“You will think it very foolish,” said Anne, a sickly ray of hope breaking upon her as the time of certain knowledge drew so near, “I only wanted to ask you about Miss Aytoun’s family. I mean—Miss Aytoun—Alice—is her father alive?”

Mrs. Catherine regarded her for a considerable time in silence.Anne felt the long, firm look a death knell to her last hope, and returned it with a strange, callous steadiness, such as comes occasionally in the extremity of trial, imparting to the sufferer a fictitious strength.

“Her father is not alive. Wherefore do you ask me, child?”

The unnatural flicker of hope rose again.

“Where did he die, and how? I beseech you to tell me, Mrs. Catherine!”

“Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, gravely; “for what purpose do you seek to know? Wherefore do you question me so?”

“Where did he die, and when, and how?” repeated Anne.—”Answer me, Mrs. Catherine—do not hesitate—I am prepared.”

Mrs. Catherine paused long before she answered.

“The place was a country place—far south from this; the time was seventeen years ago; the way was—” Mrs. Catherine paused again. “To what purpose is this questioning, child? It is a matter that concerns you not.”

“The way was—?” repeated Anne, clasping her hand eagerly.

“The way was—he was killed,” said Mrs. Catherine, in abrupt haste. “Shot, as men shoot beasts. Anne Ross, I brought the bairn Alison to my house, because she was an innocent bairn that I wanted to do a kindness to, and not because of her parentage.”

Anne heard the words, but did not discern their meaning, and sat, in the blind, fainting sickness that possessed her, repeating them to herself, unconsciously.

“Child, child!” said Mrs. Catherine, in alarm. “What ails you? What have you heard? I am meaning, why have you come to me with such a question?”

“One other—only one,” said Anne, recollecting herself. “Mrs. Catherine, who was it—who was the murderer?”

Mrs. Catherine made an appealing motion with her hand, and did not answer.

But Anne was perfectly self-possessed again.

“Was it Norman?”

Mrs. Catherine did not speak; it was not necessary. The answer was far too legibly written in the long, steadfast look of grief and sympathy which she fixed upon her companion’s face.

And so they sat in silence for some minutes, too deeply moved and engrossed for words. At length Anne started up.

“That is all,” she said, hurriedly. “I must go now. I have much to do.”

Mrs. Catherine rose also, took her hand, and led her back to her seat.

“You shall not leave my house, child, till I hear more of this. Who was so cruel as to tell you this sorrowful story? and what is it that you have to do?”

Anne sat down again, mechanically.

“Child,” said Mrs. Catherine; “I have never spoken Norman’s name in your hearing, nor suffered it to be spoken. Who has told you a terrible story, which was buried in grief and forgetfulness long ago, when the unhappy lad found his grave under the sea? It is not known in the countryside, for the deed was done far from here, and your father hung back, and took no note, outwardly, of the miserable boy’s fate. He was right maybe. I would not have done the like—but that is little matter. Who told you?”

“Found his grave under the sea!” murmured Anne, unconsciously.

“What say ye, child?”

“It was Mrs. Ross,” said Anne, “when Miss Aytoun came first to the Tower, she told me that she feared this washisdaughter. Oh! Mrs. Catherine, why did you not keep her separate from us? If we had not been brought so much together, this could not have happened.”

“Child,” said Mrs. Catherine, “there is something on your mind yet, which is not known to me; the story is a woeful story, dark enough to cause sore grief; but it is over and past, and there is some living dread upon you. What has happened?”

Anne looked up—she could not find words to communicate her “living dread”—she only murmured “Lewis.”

Mrs. Catherine started. “Lewis? Child what is it ye mean? No that there is anything—No, no, what makes me fear that—there can be no liking between the two.”

“There is, there is,” said Anne.

Mrs. Catherine rose, and walked through the room uneasily.

“It must be put to an end—immediate—without delay. I brought the bairn here to do her a kindness, no to give her a sore heart. Child, Lewis must not enter my house again till Alison Aytoun is home. She is but a bairn—it can have gone no further than the slight liking of a boy and a girl. Where were my eyes that I did not see the peril? Child, it must end this very day—better the pang of a sudden parting—better that each of them should think they were slighted by the other, than that it should ever come to an explanation between them, and then to the rendering of reasons—it must go no further.”

“It is too late,” said Anne; “there has already been an explanation between them. Mrs. Catherine, they are engaged.”

Mrs. Catherine paced up and down the small apartment with quick steps.

“I am compassed with troubles! no sooner seeing my way out of one, than another opens before me. Anne, my puir bairn, I am a selfish fool to think of my own gray head, when the burden fallsthe heaviest on your young one. What will we do? there is a purpose in your eye as I can see—tell me what it is.”

Anne did not know how to proceed: she could not betray Norman’s secret even to Mrs. Catherine.

“I will tell Lewis,” she said, “and perhaps, Mrs. Catherine—I do not know what is best to be done with poor Alice, so happy and young as she is—perhaps you will tell her—not all—but something to excuse Lewis.”

Mrs. Catherine shook her head.

“It will not do. It will not do. If I excuse Lewis, she will think it is but some passing thing that awhile will wear away.—No, child, no, if the bairn hears anything, she must hear all.”

“I will tell Lewis,” said Anne; “but I must first learn the whole of this dreadful story more perfectly. I thought of going to old Esther Fleming: she was Norman’s nurse, Mrs. Catherine—is she likely to know of this?”

“I mind much of it myself,” said Mrs. Catherine, “but you will get it better from Esther Fleming than from any other mortal. I have been taken up with many diverse things, but Norman and her own son were year’s bairns, and Norman was the light of Esther Fleming’s eyes. Your father made no endeavor to help the miserable young man, child. I know what you would say—there was no time—and it is true—for the deed had not been two days done, when he was on the sea—be thankful, child, that he perished in the sea and did not die a shameful death.”

Anne trembled—the consciousness of her secret overpowering her as if it had been guilt. Alas! over the head of the murderer the shameful death impended still.

“Did the family know?” she asked, her mind becoming strangely familiar with the subject: “could they know of Norman’s relationship to Lewis?”

“No,” said Mrs. Catherine. “When Arthur Aytoun died, his wife was a young thing, feeble in her health, and oppressed with many troubles; for I have heard that he was far from a good man. James Aytoun was but a bairn then, and Alison was not born; besides that, they were strangers in that countryside, as well as Norman—being from the south—and would know little of him but his name. Mrs. Aytoun is a woman of a chastened spirit, child; she knows the unhappy lad has answered for his guilt langsyne before his Maker; and think not that she will keep his name in the mother’s heart of her, in any dream of vengeance.”

Anne could not answer: her secret lay upon her like a cloud, weighing her down to the very earth.

“I must tell the bairn,” continued Mrs. Catherine, as if consulting with herself; “ay, I must tell the bairn, that she may know, without having any sick month of waiting, that there is a bar betweenLewis and her that cannot be passed over—that there is a stern and terrible conclusion put to the dreams of their young love.—Child! it is a sore weight to lay upon a spirit innocent of all sorrow.”

Anne assented silently.

“And you will have a harder battle with the youth,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Child, there are bairns in this generation that would fain inherit the rights and possessions of their fathers, without the ills and the wrongs. Take heed of Lewis, lest he endeavor to hold this black deed lightly. I will not have it. The blood that a Ross spilt must never be joined in near kindred to another Ross. There is a deadly bar between the houses. Forgiveness there may be, full and free—I doubt it not—but union never. Mind, there can be no softening—no forgetting. The spirit that was sent to its account in violence and haste, by Norman’s hand, would rise to bar that ill-trysted betrothal. It must end.”

Anne rose.

“I will go,” she said. “I parted from Lewis last night in anger, because I had no kind word to say to Alice when he bade me be her sister. I must hasten now to learn these terrible details more accurately. Lewis might refuse to believe a story which came so suddenly upon him, and came for such a purpose, if I did not know it all. I must go now.”

“You will get it best from Esther,” said Mrs. Catherine. “I know she has brooded, in secret, over his sin and his death, since ever his sun set in yon terrible waves of blood-guiltiness. Anne, my bairn!” Mrs. Catherine paused, laid her hand upon Anne’s drooping head, and went on, her voice sounding low and solemn. “The Lord uphold and strengthen you for your work; the Lord guide you with the uplifting of His countenance, and give you to walk firm in the midst of tribulation, and not to falter or be weary in the way.”

Once out again upon Oranside, Anne felt the oppression of her terrible secret grow upon her to suffocation. “He is alive! he is alive!”—the words came bursting to her lips; she felt tempted, in the strange, almost irresistible, insanity of the moment, to proclaim it aloud, as she hurried along; running sometimes, with a sick feeling of escaping thereby from the phantom that overshadowed her inmost heart. The crime itself seemed to become dimmer, in its far distance. The thought that Norman was alive, laden with his fearful burden of remorse and blood-guiltiness, abiding perchance the shameful death of the murderer, filled her whole being almost to frenzy, and, with its circle of possibilities, curdled her very blood with terror.

Mrs. Ross and Lewis were about sitting down to breakfast, when Anne returned to Merkland, and the domestic horizon wasanything but clear. Lewis, forgetful of his last night’s sullen petulance, was in high spirits—spirits so high as to aggravate his mother’s ill-humor. She grudged that he should have found so much pleasure at the Tower; and, sneering at Mrs. Catherine, whose unquestioned superiority had always galled her, kept up a biting war of inuendo and covert sarcasm.

“A pleasant morning for walking, Miss Ross,” she said, as Anne took her seat at the table.

“Why, Anne, have you been out?” exclaimed Lewis. “You have good taste certainly, so far as weather goes. Where do you go to, so early in the morning?”

“Oh, no doubt she has been at the Tower,” said Mrs. Ross. “Duncan and May will be going next. We are possessed with a Tower fever. I presume you were making tender inquiries after Mr. Sutherland, Miss Ross? At this time, of course, it is quite sentimental and romantic to entertain a friendship—nay, perhaps, something warmer than friendship—for the interesting unfortunate.”

“I might have asked for poor Archibald,” said Anne, “if I had thought of him at all; but I did not remember even that he had come home.”

“Then you have been at the Tower?”

Anne hesitated. “I did go in to see Mrs. Catherine,” she said, falteringly.

Lewis looked up gratefully, and smiled upon her with a smile which said, “I thank you;” before which Anne shrank, and turned away her head.

“I do not know how we shall get on in the ordinary affairs of life,” continued Mrs. Ross, “while this Tower madness lasts. I should like to know wherein the fascination lies. One can understand a passing infatuation, in a boy like Lewis; but for you, Anne, who should have some idea of propriety and decorum, to be visiting the house, where you knew that young man had arrived at night, so very early in the morning—I really am amazed; I do not understand it.”

Anne blushed painfully: Lewis drew himself up in towering indignation. “Passing infatuation!”—”aboylike Lewis!”

There was a fortunate diversion made, however, by the entrance of May, with letters, and until their meal was ended, there was a cessation of hostilities, though Mrs. Ross still kept up a fugitive fire, hitting right and left, Lewis and Anne alternately. The breakfast over, Lewis rose to leave the room.

“Oh!” exclaimed his mother. “I suppose you are going to the Tower.”

“Yes, mother,” said Lewis, gravely, “I am going to the Tower; and when I return I shall have something to tell you, which, as itwill be of great importance to me, I hope you will receive calmly, and in a more gentle spirit.”

He left the room. Mrs. Ross followed him with her eyes in astonishment, and then going to the window, watched him turn up Oranside. Anne sat in terror, lest she should be questioned as to the mystery of Lewis’ words, but fortunately, she was not. Mrs. Ross sat down, and took her sewing. Anne had done so before, and the two ladies pursued their work in silence.

The needle trembled in Anne’s excited fingers; she felt the acceleration of her pulse, she heard the loud, quick throbbing of her heart. The silence became awful; she fancied Mrs. Ross could hear her fingers stumbling at every stitch. “Mother,” she said, looking up at last. “I have a great favor to ask of you.”

Mrs. Ross glanced at her impatiently. “Well; what is it?”

“You spoke to me once, of a letter—a letter,” continued Anne, growing bolder, as she steadied her voice, “which my unhappy brother, Norman, wrote to my father; you said I might see it some time, mother!”

“Upon my word, girl, I believe you want to drive me mad,” exclaimed Mrs. Ross, angrily. “You see me half distracted, with the wilfulness and regardlessness of Lewis, and you bring in your own foolish fancies, and your brother’s shameful story, as if I had not enough to vex me without that. Try to come down to ordinary life a little, and do not torment me with your chimeras.”

“This is no chimera,” said Anne, “nor whim, nor fancy, nor anything of the kind; it is of the gravest importance that I should see that letter. It is not even curiosity, though I need hardly be blamed for feeling deep interest in the history of my brother. For the sake of my father’s memory, and for the sake of Lewis, the two bonds between us, give me Norman’s letter. I will ask nothing further of you; this I must beg and plead for, this you must give me.”

Mrs. Ross stared angrily in her face, resenting, and yet something impressed by the very strange tone of command, which, impelled by the vehemence of her feelings, mingled with Anne’s entreaty. At last she rose, and walking quickly to her desk, opened it, and took from an inner drawer a small key, which she threw upon the table.

“There! let me have no further heroics; that is the key of an old bureau of your father’s, which you will find up stairs among the lumber. The letter is in some of the drawers. At least, don’t let me have any further trouble about it. I yield to you now, only to take away from you the power of tormenting me at another time.”

Anne did not pause to note the ungracious manner in which her petition was granted; but laying by her work nervously, she took the key, and hurried upstairs. The old bureau, of dark carvedwood, stood dusty and damp in a recess, and Anne had to draw aside boxes of mouldering papers, and articles of broken furniture, before she reached it. The picture stood in her way; she knelt down again, delaying in her very eagerness, now, that the long wished-for letter was within her reach, to look upon the portrait; so bold, and frank, and open, in its flush of manly boyhood. Was that the face of a murderer?

Her fingers trembled so with haste and agitation, that she could scarcely open the many drawers, and examine their contents. In the last of all she found the letter, wrapped in a large sheet of paper, within which was something written, in the tremulous scratchy hand, which Anne knew to be her father’s. With Norman’s letter before her, she yet paused to read the comment of the dead—a comment which startled her into wild agitation, and still wilder hope.

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