CHAPTER XXI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is mamma?” asked Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha is she like, Jacky?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did he say?” asked Tibbie.

“Ou naithing. Jacky and me kens.”

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

“It was naething ill,” said Jacky.

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

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

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

“Only about Miss Alice and him.”

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

Bessie laughed again.

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

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

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

Jacky repelled the insult with immense disdain.

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

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

Jacky was indignantly silent.

“And wha is she?” inquired Tibbie.

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

“Lilie what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No—she’s gaun to the sea-side.”

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

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

“And what’s Miss Anne gaun to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do Jacky justice, Alice,” said Anne. “Sheisa strangegoodgirl—she—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have heard the name.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What Marion?” exclaimed Anne, eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne thanked her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Crankie twisted her strange little figure impatiently:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If ye please, Miss Anne—”

“Well, Jacky?”

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

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

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

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

“I know that, Jacky—because what?”

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

“And what?”

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

“Was Lilie with her then, Jacky?”

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

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

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

“Yes, Jacky.”

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

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

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

“And, if ye please, Miss Anne—”

Anne again turned round to listen.

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

“What is it, Jacky?”

Jacky drew near and spoke very low:

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

Anne started.

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

“What did she say, Jacky?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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