Anne met Archibald’s eyes with a supplicating glance in them as the melody ended. Her own were wet with sympathetic tears. Yes, for him who must count so many years of toil before he could see the evening star rise calm on the home-waves of Oran, she echoed the prayer, but more deeply, and with a thrill of still devouter earnestness, for that exiled brother who already had borne the burden of the long laborious day, so far from home and all its comforts, so far from hope and honor.

Alice sang again, a pretty little pastoral song of the district, which was a favorite with Lewis. He was leaning over her chair, and Anne, approaching Mrs. Catherine, took the opportunity of asking her about this ballad—whether it really had any connexion with Norman, or was but linked to him, by her own fancy.

“It is Norman’s song,” said Mrs. Catherine. “Ye know, child, that I like ballads that have the breath of life in them. Langsyne, Norman left that with me; the author of it was some student lad about Redheugh, that he liked well, and it has lain bye me ever since. I desired the bairn Alison to learn it. I am an auld fuil to heed such bairnly things, child; but it pleased me to hear her father’s daughter singing that. There was a kind of forgiveness and peace in it to the memory of the unhappy callant.—It was a foolish fancy, was it not, for an auld wife? But silence! let us hear her.”

And so, next morning, little Alice, very sadly, and with many tears, went away; Lewis and Anne accompanying her to Portoran. Alice wore a little ring of betrothal upon her slender finger, and carried with her a letter from Mrs. Catherine, stating all the circumstances of her engagement, and their conviction that they could prove to Mrs. Aytoun’s satisfaction the innocence of Norman. It had been thought best that Lewis should not write himself, until Mrs. Catherine had explained his peculiar position to the mother and brother of Alice; and they had arranged that he should follow her, very shortly, to Edinburgh, to present himself to her family, and urge his suit in person.

Very sad also was the leave-taking of Bessie and her friends at the Tower. Johnnie Halflin had bought a pretty little silk handkerchief for her, which Bessie, in simple fidelity, vowed never to part with. Jacky had bestowed a book, and some very beautiful moss, from a gray, old tombstone in the graveyard on Oranside, which, tradition said, covered the last resting-place of the heroine of an old, pathetic ballad, current in the countryside. Bessie let the book slide thanklessly to the bottom of her little “kist,” and was sadly at a loss what to do with the moss, which however, was finally thrust into the same repository. Poor Jacky had chosen her parting presents unhappily.

It cost her no inconsiderable amount of exertion and self-denial to have the tears and sadness sufficiently overcome to meet her mother’s greeting as she wished to do. But Alice schooled herself bravely, like a little hero, and conquered. They were home, in the old familiar room, by the well-known fireside. Mrs. Aytoun was smiling, as she had not smiled before since Alice went away. James was half-ashamed of being so unusually joyous. They had all her news to hear, all her three months’ history over again, in spite of the long recording letters.

“And what is this?” said Mrs. Aytoun, taking her daughter’s small white hand, upon which glittered the little token ring. “Is this another of those delicate gifts of Mrs. Catherine’s?”

Little Alice could not answer; the blood flushed over her face and neck. She stammered and trembled. Mrs. Aytoun looked at her, in alarm and wonder.

“Read this letter, mother,” whispered Alice, at last, putting Mrs. Catherine’s letter into her mother’s hands, and sinking upon a stool at her feet. “It will tell you all.”

James had left the room, a minute before. Mrs. Aytoun, somewhat agitated, opened the letter, and Alice laid her head upon her mother’s knee, and hid it in the folds of her dress. Mrs. Aytoun read:

Mrs. Aytoun was greatly agitated. James had entered the room, and stood in silent astonishment, as he looked at Alice clinging to her mother’s knee, and the letter trembling in Mrs. Aytoun’s hand. “Mother—Alice—what has happened? What is the matter?”

Mrs. Aytoun handed the letter to him in silence, and, lifting her daughter up, drew her close to her breast: “My Alice! my poor, simple bairn! why did I let you away from me?”

The girl clung to her mother, terrified, ashamed, and dizzy.—She trembled to hear some fatal sentence, parting her for ever from Lewis. She fancied she could never lift up her blushing face again, to speak of him, even if that terror were withdrawn: she could only lean on that kind breast, and cling, as is the nature of such gentle, dependent spirits. Anne Ross’s words were true.—Had Mrs. Aytoun but said that she must never see Lewis again, poor little Alice would have submitted without a struggle, and would have been right; she was safe in that wise guidance—she was not safe in her own.

And leading and supporting her drooping daughter, Mrs. Aytoun went to her own room, and, seating herself there, began to question Alice.

And then the whole stream came flowing forth, hesitating and broken; how Lewis had travelled with her, and had been constantly at her side, ever since that momentous journey; how Anne had been her patient, kind, indulgent friend; how at last, upon that eventful New year’s night, Lewis and herself had been alone together—and then—and then—there followed some incoherent words, which Mrs. Aytoun could comprehend the purport of; how Anne came in, looking so chill and pale, and horror-stricken; how Mrs. Catherine next day took her into the little room, and almost broke the gentle heart that was beating so high now, with anxiety and suspense; how Anne returned at night with voice as tender and hand as gentle as her mother’s telling her that Norman was innocent; and then, how glad and happy they had all been together again—and then—if her mother could only see him—if she could only see Anne—they could tell her so much better!

Mrs. Aytoun was still anxious and pale, but her tremor of agitation was quieted.

“She must be a very kind, good girl, this Anne, Alice.”

Alice breathed more freely—if her mother had been very angry, was her simple reasoning, she would not have spoken so.

“She is very good—very kind, mother—like you, gentler than Mrs. Catherine; but she is not a girl, she is older than—than Lewis.”

Mrs. Aytoun smiled.

“How old is Lewis?”

The simple little heart began to beat with troubled joy.

“He is twenty-one, mother. It was his birthday just a week after I went to the Tower.”

Mrs. Aytoun did not speak for some time.

“Alice,” she said at last, “I must see this Lewis, and consult with James, before I make any decision—in the meantime you will be very patient, will you not?”

“Oh, yes, yes—I do not care how long—only—if you saw him, mother, if you just saw him, I know how you would like him!”

“Would I?” said Mrs. Aytoun, smiling: “well, we shall see; but now dry your eyes, and let us go back to James again.”

They returned to the parlor. James sat at the table, the letter lying before him, and his face exceedingly grave. He was very much disturbed and troubled. He did not well see what to do.

“Alice, when does Mr. Ross come to Edinburgh?”

Mr. Ross! so cold it sounded and icy—would not Lewis be his brother?

“In a fortnight,” murmured Alice.

“A fortnight! then, mother, I think my best plan is to go down to Strathoran myself and make inquiries. In a matter which involves two such important things as the happiness of Alice, and the honor of our family, there is no time for delay. I shall start to-morrow.”

“Can you spare the time?” said his mother—while Alice looked up half-glad, half-sorrowful—it might keep Lewis from coming to Edinburgh—at the same time, James was so sure to be convinced by Lewis’s irresistible eloquence, and the gentler might of Anne.

“I must spare it, mother,” was the answer, “my ordinary business is not so important as this. What do you think—am I right?”

“Perfectly right, James,” said his mother, promptly, “I was about to advise this myself; and if you find anything satisfactory to report, you can bid this Lewis still come. I shall want to see who it is, who has superseded me in my little daughter’s heart.”

“Oh, no, mother—no, no,” cried Alice, imploringly. “Do not say that.”

James Aytoun rose and laid his hand caressingly upon his little sister’s fair hair. She had been a child when he was rising into manhood. He thought her a child still—and with the grave difficulties of this, very unexpected problem, which they had to solve, there mingled a half-mirthful, half-sad, sort of incredulous wonder. Little Alice had done a very important piece of business independently and alone. Little Alice had the sober glory of matronhood hanging over her fair, girlish forehead. Little Alice was engaged!

With quick interest, partly in that it was one of the first cases in which his legal wisdom had been consulted, and partly from the kindly feeling of neighborship, which is so warm in Scotland, the young lawyer embraced the search, and promised to go down instantly to the parish in which the deed was done, or even to engage the assistance of an acute writer, of experience in his craft, if Lewis thought that desirable. Mr. Robert, however, with a young man’s abundant confidence in his own power, fancied that he could accomplish the work quite as well alone. “He would go down quietly to the village,” he said, “taking care to do nothing which might put the true criminal, if he still lived, upon his guard; and as soon as he had procured any information, would report it to Lewis.”

The letter was satisfactory—the warm readiness of belief in Norman’s innocence pleased Anne. In such a matter, however strong one’s own faith may be, it is a great satisfaction to hear it echoed by other minds.

In the afternoon of that day, Anne went, by appointment, to the Tower, to communicate Robert’s opinion to Mrs. Catherine.—She made a circuit by the mill, to see Lilie; for Mrs. Catherine and Archibald, she knew, had business in Portoran, and would not return early. It was a clear, bright, mild day, with a spring haze of subdued sunshine about it, reminding one, pleasantly, that the year “was on the turn.” Lilie was not at home.

“And I wish ye would speak to that outre lassie, Jacky Morison, Miss Anne,” said Lilie’s careful guardian. “She had the bairn away this morning, and trails her about to a’ kinds of out o’ the way places; in the wood, and on the hills; and I’m not sure in my ain mind, that it’s right to let the bairn wi’ the like o’ her.”

“Jacky is sure to be very careful,” said Anne.

“Na, it’s no sae muckle for that,” said Mrs. Melder; “though I have a cauld tremble whiles when I think o’ the water. Jacky’s no oncarefu. It’s a great charge being answerable for a stranger bairn, Miss Anne; but Lilie’s learning (it’s just a pleasure to see how fast she wins on) a’ manner o’ nonsense verses; and has her bit head fu’ of stories o’ knights and fairies, and I kenna a’ what. It’s Jacky’s doing and no ither. I am at times whiles far frae easy in my mind about it.”

“No fear,” said Anne, smiling. “Jacky will do Lilie no harm, Mrs. Melder.”

“Marjory,” said Anne, “what are you doing?—what is the matter now?”

“Anne Ross, is that you?—the matter!—why, look here—here is matter enough to make any one angry—our road, that belonged to us and our ancestors before this man’s race or name had ever been heard of—look at it, how he has blocked it up—look at this ‘notice to trespassers’—‘to be prosecuted with the utmost rigor of the law’—very well, let them prosecute!” continued Marjory, raising her voice, and sending a flashing, keen glance towards a corner of the adjoining plantation, “let them prosecute by all means—in five minutes more, they shall have some trespassers. These paltry little tyrants—these upstart Englishmen, daring, in a lowland country, and on poor Archibald Sutherland’s lands, to do what a highland chief would not venture on, on his own hills!”

“It must be some mistake, Marjory,” said Anne, “it is impossible any one could do this with the intention of insulting the whole countryside. It must be a mistake.”

“Mistake, indeed!—throw it into the Oran, George, throw it over the water,” cried Miss Falconer, as the groom raised in his arms an immense piece of wood, the last barrier to the passage. “We shall see that by-and-by—come, Anne.”

Marjory mounted the style, and sprang down in the Strathoran grounds on the other side. “Come, Anne, come.”

“Had we not better go the other way?” said Anne. “It is but subjecting ourselves to impertinence, Marjory. Nay, do not look contemptuous. I am not afraid of accompanying you, but I do think that Lewis and Ralph might manage this better than we can.”

Marjory threw back her head with an indignant, impatient motion. “Don’t be a fool, Anne. Come, I am going to the Tower. Lewis and Ralph indeed!”

“Well,” said Anne, “if they could not do it better, it would be at least more suitable. We shall only expose ourselves to impertinence, Marjory. Let us go round the other way.”

“Very well,” said Miss Falconer, turning away; “I will go alone.”

Anne crossed the stile. It was annoying to be forced into any altercation, such as was almost sure to ensue upon their meeting any of the dependents of Lord Gillravidge; at the same time, she could not suffer Marjory to go alone. George lifted a large, empty basket, and followed them, his hot, merry face shining like a beacon as he passed beneath the bare and rustling boughs.

“What a pity I have not my whip,” said Marjory, as, drawing Anne’s arm within her own, they passed on together. “You should have seen that cowardly fellow who stopped little Alice! what a grimace he made when he felt the lash about his shoulders! I say, Anne,”—Miss Falconer’s voice sank lower—”did you see them hiding in the wood?”

“Who, Marjory?”

“Oh! that ape with the hair about his face, and some more of them. I should not have pulled down their barricade, I dare say, if I had not seen them. But you do not think I would retreat for them?”

“I do think, indeed,” said Anne, looking hastily round, “that retreat would be by far our most dignified plan. Suppose they come down to us, Marjory, and we, who call ourselves gentlewomen, get involved in a squabble with a set of impertinent young men. I do think we are subjecting ourselves to quite unnecessary humiliation.”

A violent flush covered Marjory Falconer’s face—one of those overpowering rebounds of the strained delicacy and womanliness which revenged her escapades so painfully—the burning color might have furnished a hundred fluttering blushes for little Alice Atoun. But still she had no idea of yielding.

“Perhaps you are right, Anne. I did not think of that; but at least we must go on now. And think what an insult it is!—to all of us—to the whole country. We cannot suffer it, you know. Mrs. Catherine, I am sure, will take steps immediately.”

“Very likely,” said Anne.

Anne was revolving the possibility of crossing the Oran by the stepping-stones, which were about a quarter of a mile along, and so escaping the collision she dreaded.

“Injustice?” said Anne, laughing. “No, indeed, only a great, deal of foolishness and nonsense; both on the part of the silly boys, and—I beg your pardon, Marjory—on yours, for taking the trouble of repeating what they say.”

“Oh, very well!” said Miss Falconer, coloring still more violently, yet, with characteristic obstinacy plunging on in the expression of her pet opinions. “Yes! I know you think me very unwomanly; you pretend to be proper, Anne Ross—to set that sweet confection of gentleness, and mildness, and dependence, which people call a perfect woman, up as your model; but it’s all a cheat, I tell you! You ought to try to be weak and pretty, and instead of that, you are only grave and sensible. You ought to be clinging to Lewis, as sweet and timid as possible; instead of that, you are very independent, and not much given, I fancy, to consulting your younger brother. You’re not true, Anne Ross; you think with me, and are only quiet to cover it.”

“Hush!” said Anne; “do not be so very profane, Marjory.—Do you remember how the Apostle describes it; those words that charm one’s ear like music, ‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.’ Are not the very sounds beautiful? Mildness and gentleness are exceeding good things; but I do not set any sweet confection before me, for my model. Marjory! do you remember those other beautiful words; ‘Strength and honor are her clothing; she opens her mouth with wisdom, and in her lips is the law of kindness?’ There is nothing weak about that, and yet that seems to me a perfectly womanly woman.”

Marjory Falconer did not answer.

“Very well! very well!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, clapping her hands. “Utterly contemn and abominate! Hear, hear, hear! who could have believed it of quiet Anne Ross?”

Anne laughed. “Quiet Anne Ross is about to dare something further, Marjory. See; when did you cross the stepping-stones?”

They had reached them; three or four large, smooth stones, lay across the stream, at a point where it narrowed; the middle one was a great block of native marble, which had been there, firm in its centre, since ever the brown Oran was a living river. The passage was by no means perilous, except for people to whom a wet shoe was a great evil. It is not commonly so with youthful people in the country; it was a matter of the most perfect unconcern to Marjory Falconer.

“When did I cross the stepping-stones? Not for a good twelvemonth. I challenge you, Anne; if we should stumble, there is no one to see us but George. Come along.”

And Marjory, in the close-fitting, dark-cloth pelisse, which her old maid at Falcon’s Craig congratulated herself “could take no scather,” leaped lightly from stone to stone, across the placid, clear, brown water. Anne, rejoicing in the success of her scheme, followed. So did George, somewhat disappointed, at losing the expected fun, of a rencontre with “some o’ the feckless dandy chaps at Strathoran,” and the demolition of the barricade at the other end of the way.

They had to make a considerable circuit before they reached the road; but Anne endured that joyfully, when she saw through the trees the hirsute Mr. Fitzherbert, and some of his companions, assembled about the second stile—Marjory saw them too—the deep blush of shame returned to her cheek in overpowering pain: she did not say anything, but did not feel the less for that. Did Anne, indeed, need to scheme, for the preservation of her dignity?

They were lingering without—the air was so very mild and balmy, as if some summer angel had broken the spell of winter for one day. Marjory leant against a tree; her clear, good face, more thoughtful than usual. Anne had seated herself on a stone seat, beside the threshold, and was bending over Lilie, and her handful of moss; while Jacky, like a brown elf, as she was called, hovered in the rear. Mrs. Catherine had not yet returned from Portoran.

“If ye please will ye go in?” asked Jacky.

“No, let us stay here, Anne,” said Miss Falconer. “Jacky, how did Mrs. Catherine go?”

“If ye please, she’s in the phaeton,” said Jacky.

“In the phaeton? oh!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, in a tone of disappointment; “and those steady wretches of ponies—there is no chance of anything happening to them—there is no hope of them running away.”

“Hope, Marjory?” said Anne.

“Yes, hope! If Mrs. Catherine could only be caught in that shut-up by-way herself. Anne, I would give anything, just to find her in it.”

“Here she comes,” said Anne, as the comfortable brown equipage, and its brisk ponies, came smartly up towards the door, driven by Archibald Sutherland. “Ask her to walk to the little gate with you, Marjory—she will do it. But be careful not to speak of it before Archibald.”

“Thank you for the caution,” said Miss Falconer, in an undertone. “I wont; but I had forgotten—”

The vehicle drew up. Mrs. Catherine alighted, and, at Marjory’s request, turned with her to the little gate, from the shady dim lane beyond which the barricaded stile was visible, which shut passengers out from the sacred enclosure of Strathoran.

Archibald sat down on the stone seat at the threshold, by Anne’s side. Lilie was very talkative—she had seen the little ruined chapel on Oranside for the first time that day.

“There’s grass upon the steps,” said Lilie, “and they’re broken—and then up high it’s a gray, but the branches, and they’re like the lang arms of the brown spirits on the muir that Jacky kens about. Ye would think they had hands waving—”

“And upon the wall there’s something white, printed in letters like a book—and down below, Oh, ye dinna ken what I found!—Jacky’s got it. It was a wee, wee blue flower, growing in a corner, where it could see naithing but the sky. Would that be the way it was blue?”

Anne could give no satisfactory answer, and Lilie went on.

“Jacky was to keep it for me, but I’ll give it to you, because it’s pretty,—like the Oran, in the gloaming, when the sky’s shining in the water. There’s no flower but it—no—” said Lilie, comprehending in one vast glance the whole wide sweep of hill and valley round her—infinite as it seemed to the child’s eyes; “no in the world—only it, and folk were sleeping below it. Jacky says the angels plant them—is that true? wait till I get it.”

The child darted away, and returned in a moment, bringing a small, wild, blue violet, one of those little, shapeless flowers, whose minute, dark leaves have so exquisite a fragrance. Anne took it from her, smiling, and repeating: “It will return in spring,” offered it to Archibald. He received it with some emotion.—This sole flower in the world, as Lilie said, brought to him from the grave of father and of mother—the only spot of earth in Strathoran where he was not a stranger. He accepted the emblem, fragrant of their memories, as it seemed, fragrant of hope and life in the dreary winter-time, and, with its promise breathing from its leaves: “It will return in spring!”

They were both silent and thoughtful: Archibald absorbed with these remembrances and anticipations, while Anne, sympathizing fully with him, was yet half inclined to blame herself for her involuntary exhilaration. The weight was lifted off Anne’s heart. It was no longer a dread and horror, that secret life of Norman’s but a thing to be rejoiced in, and to draw brightest encouragement from—a very star of hope.

The sound of wheels upon the road recalled her thoughts. Mrs. Catherine’s ponies had been led away by Johnnie Halflin. It was a shabby inn-gig, driven by one of the hangers-on of the ‘Sutherland Arms,’ in Portoran, which now drove up, and took the phaeton’s place. A young man, with a pleasant, manly face, alighted, and, looking at Anne and Archibald dubiously, stood hesitating before them, and, at last, with some embarrassment, asked for Mrs. Catherine.

Jacky darted forward to show him in, and, in a few minutes, reappeared, breathless, with the stranger’s card in her hand.—Archibald had gone in—Anne had risen, and stood looking towards the little gate, waiting for Mrs. Catherine and Miss Falconer.

“Oh! if ye please, Miss Anne—” exclaimed Jacky.

Jacky held up the card—”Mr. James Aytoun.” “If ye please, Miss Anne, I think it’ll be Miss Alice’s brother.”

Anne hastened forward to tell Mrs. Catherine, somewhat disturbed by the information. She feared for Lewis. Lewis was not so confident in the truth of these letters as she, and might, betray his doubt to Alice Aytoun’s brother, a lawyer, skilled in discerning those signs of truth in the telling of a story, which Lewis would lack in his narrative.

Jacky stole back to the library: the fire was getting low, she persuaded herself, and while she improved it, she could steal long glances at the stranger, and decide that he was “like Miss Alice, only no half so bonnie.” When the mending of the fire was complete, she slid into a corner, and began to restore various misplaced books. James watched her for a minute or two with some amusement. Alice had spoken of this dark, singular, elfin girl. She lingered so long that he forgot her. At last a voice alarmed him, close at his ear.

“If ye please—”

He looked up—Jacky was emboldened.

“If ye please—Miss Alice—”

“What about Miss Alice?” asked James, kindly.

“Just, is she quite well, Sir?” said Jacky, abashed.

“Quite well, I am much obliged to you,” said James.

Jacky hovered still. Somewhat startled James Aytoun would have been, had he divined the eager question hanging upon her very lips:

“Oh, if ye please, will they no let her be married on Mr. Lewis?” but Jacky restrained her interest in Alice Aytoun’s fortunes, sufficiently to say: “Mrs. Catherine is coming, Sir!” and to glide out of the room.

“James Aytoun!” exclaimed Mrs. Catherine, as Anne interrupted the indignant declamation of Marjory Falconer, to inform her of the stranger’s arrival. “Ay! that is like a man; I am pleased with that. The lad must have, both sense and spirit.—Send down to Merkland for Lewis without delay, child, and come in with me to the library; the lad’s business is with you, more than me. I like the spirit of him; there has been no milk-and-water drither, or lingering here. Come away.”

They entered the house. “Marjory Falconer,” said Mrs. Catherine, “go up the stair, and wait till we come to you. Say nothing of yon to Archie; but, be you sure, I will stand no such thing from the hands of the evil pack of them—hounds!”

“You are welcome to my house, James Aytoun; and it pleases me, that I can call a lad who give such prompt heed to the honor of this house kinsman. Are you wearied with your journey? or would you rather speak of the matter that brought you here at once?”

“Certainly,” said James, smiling in spite of himself, at this abrupt introduction of the subject, “I should much rather ascertain how this important matter stands, at once. Your letter surprised us very greatly, Mrs. Catherine; you will imagine that—and of course I feel it of the utmost consequence that I should lose no time in making myself acquainted with the particulars.”

“Wise and right,” said Mrs. Catherine, approvingly, “and spoken like a forecasting and right-minded man. Sit down upon your seat, James Aytoun, and you shall hear the story.”

James seated himself.

“Perhaps it would be well that I saw Mr. Ross?”

“I have sent for Lewis,” said Mrs. Catherine. “He will be here as soon as he is needed. This is his sister, Miss Ross, of Merkland. Anne, you are of more present use than Lewis—you will stay with us.”

They gathered round the table in silence. James Aytoun felt nervous and embarrassed—he did not know how to begin. Mrs. Catherine saved him from his difficulty.

“James Aytoun, it would be putting a slight upon the manly and straightforward purpose that brought you here, if we were going about the bush in this matter, and did not speak clearly.—Your father was murdered—shot by a coward hand behind him. The whole world has laid the act upon Norman Rutherford. I have believed the same myself for eighteen years. Listen to me! I am not given to change, nor am I like to alter my judgment lightly; but now I declare to you, James Aytoun, that, far more clearly than ever I held his guilt, do I believe, and am sure, that Norman Rutherford was not the man.”

James was uneasy under the gaze of those large, keen eyes, and did not wish either to meet the earnest look of Anne Ross, who seemed to be watching so eagerly for his opinion.

“Anne,” said Mrs. Catherine, “you have the letters.”

Anne drew them from her breast—she had a feeling of insecurity when they were not in her own immediate possession.

“Had we not better wait till Lewis comes?”

“No,” said Mrs. Catherine. “What Lewis cares for, is the winning of the bairn Alice—what you care for, first and most specially, is the clearing of your brother’s disgraced name. Norman is safest in your hands, Anne. Read the letters.”

“Mr. Aytoun,” said Anne, with nervous firmness, “we have no systematic proof to lay before you. Anything which can directly meet and overcome the evidence of which you speak, remains still to be gathered—and it is possible, that this, on which we build our hopes, may seem but a very feeble foundation to you. In law, I suppose, it could have no weight for a moment: but yet to those who knew my brother Norman, and were acquainted with his peculiar temperament and nature, it carries absolute conviction.—I scarcely hope that it can have the same power of convincing you—but I pray you to receive as certainly true, before I read this, the judgment which all his friends pronounced upon my unhappy brother, before this dishonor came upon him. They call him the most truthful and generous of men: they distinguish him for these two qualities above all his compeers. Mrs. Catherine, I speak truly?”

“Truthful as the course of nature itself, which the Almighty keeps from varying. Generous as the sun that He hath set to shine upon the just and the unjust. Do not linger, Anne: read Norman’s letter.”

James Aytoun’s eyes were steadily fixed upon her; and as she closed the letter, her whole frame vibrating, he drew a long breath—that most grateful of all sounds to the ears of a speaker who desires to move and impress his audience. Anne looked up eagerly and anxious. He had covered his face with his hand. Neither of them spoke; until, at last, James raised his head:

“May I see that letter, Miss Ross? Can you give it me?”

Anne had omitted the sentence in which Norman mentioned his escape. She folded it in, and handed him the letter. He read it again carefully, and yet again. Besides the earnest agony of its words, there was a mute eloquence about that yellow, timeworn paper. Blisters of tears were on it: tears of terrible grief—tears of tremulous hope. Its very characters, abrupt and broken as they were, spoke as with a living voice. Nothing false—nothing feigned, could be in the desperate energy of that wild cry, the burden of Norman’s self-defence: “I am innocent! I am innocent!”

“Miss Ross,” said James Aytoun, “there never was man convicted from clearer evidence than that which has persuaded the world of your brother’s guilt. I cannot comprehend it—my faith is shaken. I confess to you, that I feel this letter to be true—that I can no longer think of him as the murderer.”

Anne tried to smile—she could not. A stranger—a man prejudiced against Norman—the son of the dead. The tears came over her cheeks in a burst of joy. She thought it the voice of universal acquittal: she forgot all the difficulties that remained—Norman was saved.

The library-door opened, and Lewis entered. Mrs. Catherine rose, and presented him to James: the two young men shook hands with an involuntary cordiality, at which they were themselves astonished. Anne was conquering herself again; but joy seemed so much more difficult to keep in bounds, and restrain, than sorrow was. She had little experience of the first—much of the other. She started up, and laid her hand on Lewis’s arm.

“Lewis, Lewis! the way is clearing before us. Mr. Aytoun gives us his support. Mr. Aytoun thinks him innocent!”

He returned home. The home routine was going on as before. The servants, his mother, Anne, all did homage to the superior importance of Lewis. He received it as his due. These were but satellites; he, himself, was the planet of their brief horizon. Little Alice helped the delusion on; her simple heart yielded with so little resistance to his fascinations.

All at once the dream was rudely broken. Anne, his quiet, serviceable sister, he suddenly found to be absorbed by the concerns of this unknown Norman, whose very name was strange to him. His own little Alice must consider the pleasure of her mother and brother before his. Lewis was suddenly stopped short in his career of complacent selfishness. The people round him were ready to risk all things for each other. Mrs. Catherine’s wealth and lands were nothing to her, as she said, in comparison with the welfare of Archibald Sutherland, who had no nearer claim upon her than that of being the son of her friend. Anne’s whole soul was engrossed with anxiety for the deliverance of Norman: her own self did not cost her a thought. Mr. Ferguson and Mr. Foreman were spending time and labor heartily in the service of the broken laird, who could make them no return: and worst of all, they expected that Lewis also should join in that Quixotry, as a necessary and unavoidable duty, without even thinking that by so doing he would deserve any particular praise. In the fastnesses of his self-content, Lewis was shaken.

Then came James Aytoun, the stranger, to whom this Norman, whose very name inspired Anne, was, and could be nothing, except, indeed, a detested criminal—the supposed murderer of his father. He came, he saw: and lo! he was deeper into the heart of the struggle than Lewis had ever been: believing Norman’s innocence—declaring his intention of joining Robert Ferguson immediately, and assisting in his investigations; consulting with Anne in frank confidence, and with a far more genuine sympathy than had ever been awakened in the colder heart of Lewis.

Anne and James were already conversing like intimate friends. Lewis, with his natural frankness, was soon as deep in the subject as they. Anne’s face brightened as she looked upon him. Mrs. Catherine sent him now and then a word of kindly harshness, more affectionately than was her wont. Their plans were being laid.

“And I would ask of you, James Aytoun,” said Mrs. Catherine, “for what reason that ill-favored buckie of a gig is standing at my door? and what business the cripple helper from the Portoran inn has among my servants? I must take order with this.”

“The man is waiting for me,” said James. “I must return home to-morrow, Mrs. Catherine—and the day is waning. I must get into Portoran soon.”

“You must not think,” said Mrs. Catherine, “of crossing my threshold this night again. Hold your peace, young man: there is no voice lifted under this roof with authority but mine, and I will not have it. Jacky!” Jacky made her appearance at the door—”let the man that drove Mr. Aytoun up, get his dinner, and then tell your mother he is not to wait—Mr. Aytoun does not return to-night. And now, young folk, are you nearly through with your consulting? I have a visitor waiting for me up the stair.”

“You decide to go with me to-morrow, Mr. Ross?” said James.

“Yes, certainly,” said Lewis. “I will not do much good I dare say; but I shall, at least, be on the spot.”

“You are done, are you?” said Mrs. Catherine. “James Aytoun I have another matter to speak to you about. Has a stranger in the country—the purchaser of an old estate—any shadow of a right to shut up a road which has been the property of the folk of this parish of Strathoran, since beyond the memory of man?”

“No,” said James, “no proprietor has—of however long standing he may be.”

“Who is the proprietor?” said James.

“Lord Gillravidge,” answered Lewis.

“Lord Gillravidge? Hold your peace, Lewis Ross, when folk are not speaking to you, as one of your years should. The house of Strathoran has been a sinful house, James Aytoun, and Providence has sent upon it a plague of frogs, as was sent upon Egypt in the time of Israel’s captivity—puddocks that have the gift of venom over and above the native slime of them. The proprietor is Archibald Sutherland, who is dwelling in my house at this moment; but the lad has let his possessions slip through his fingers, and the vermin are in them. I would take the law with me. What should be my first step, James Aytoun, for the recovery of the road?”

“Throw down the barricade,” said Lewis.

“Lewis Ross, I have told you to hold your peace—though I will not say but what there are glimmerings of discernment breaking through the shell; tell Alice from me, James Aytoun, that the youth, if he were once through this season of vanity, gives promise of more judgment than I looked for at his hands. It is not my wont to wait for other folk’s bidding, Lewis—the barricade is down before now; but what order is it right that I should take, if the cattle put it up again?”

“Had you not better try a remonstrance, Mrs. Catherine,” said James. “It may have been done in ignorance.”

“Remonstrance! a bonnie story that I should condescend to remonstrate with the hounds. Where are you going, Anne? Did I not bid ye remain with us?”

“You forget that Marjory is up stairs, Mrs. Catherine,” said Anne.

“I forget no such thing—the bairns are mad! counselling me with their wisdom in my own house—and that minds me that I am forgetting the comfort of the stranger like a self-seeking old wife as I am. James Aytoun, I will let you see your room—and you, bairns, remain where you are, and dine with him. You are like to be near kindred—it is right you should be friends.”

They spent the evening pleasantly together. James Aytoun was fresh from that peculiar society of Edinburgh, whose intellectual progress is the pulse of Scotland, healthful, strong, and bold, as its beatings have been for these past centuries. His own compeers and companions were the rising generation—lawyers, physicians, clergymen, literati, whom the course of some score years would find in the highest places there. The intellectual life and activity which breathed out from his very conversation, stimulated Lewis. These pursuits of science and literature—those professional matters even, to the consideration of which intellect so elevated and acute was devoted, gave the country laird a new idea of the pleasure and dignity of life. Labor—healthful, vigorous, energetic, manly labor—not vacant ease of frivolous enjoyment, was the thing esteemed in that lettered community of beautiful Edinburgh, the names of whose toiling, daring, chivalrous, intellectual workmen, would be household words to the next wave of Scottish population—would have risen into the mental firmament ere then, stars for a world to see.

It was a particularly happy thing for Lewis at this especial time, his encounter with James Aytoun; the unselfish breadth of his good mind and heart, the generous start to exertion, the clear health and readiness of all his well cultured faculties, and his frank and instinctive energy, carried with them all the better part of Lewis Ross’s nature. Their visitor, with his intelligent conversation, and well-cultivated mind, pleased and made friends of them all; but conferred especial benefit and invigoration upon Lewis.

The next day they left the Tower together. Lewis, with his old self-confidence, believing himself sure to help on the search mightily by his presence; but yet so much more earnest and unselfish in his desire to see the truth established, that Anne’s heart rejoiced within her. Mrs. Ross was sulkily reconciling herself to the obvious necessity. She was by no means interested in the result of the investigation, and was inclined to hope that it would be unsuccessful, and that Lewis might be released from his engagement, yet, nevertheless, prepared herself, with much sullenness and ill-humor, for “the worst.”

Anne accompanied Lewis, in the morning, to the Tower, to bid James good-by, and charge him with various kindly messages, and some little tokens of sisterly good-will for Alice. At Mrs. Catherine’s desire she remained. Mrs. Catherine had already despatched Andrew with the following missive to Strathoran:

Mrs. Catherine and her household were busied in preparation for Archibald’s departure. Mrs. Catherine herself was hemming with a very fine needle, and almost invisible thread, breadths of transparent cambric, for the shirts which her three generations of domestics, Mrs. Elspat Henderson, Mrs. Euphan Morison, and Jacky, were occupied in making.

“And child,” said Mrs. Catherine, “I like not idle greives. If you are not pleased with Jacky’s stitching, take the other breast yourself—there is plenty to hold you all busy. I have no brood of young folk, sitting with their hands before them. What did you get clear eyesight and quick fingers for?”

Anne took the work—into no unknown or “ ‘prentice hand,” would it have been confided. Mrs. Catherine’s “white seam” was elaborated into a positive work of art. Within her strong spirit, and covered by her harsh speech, there lay so much of that singular delicacy, which could endure nothing coarse or unsuitable, that the smallest household matters came within its operation. Mrs. Catherine had little faith in the existence of fine taste or delicate perceptions, in conjunction with a coarse or disorderly “seam.” Would modern young ladies think her judgment correct?

“Archie is in Portoran,” said Mrs. Catherine, after a little time had elapsed, during which the fine work and cheerful conversation proceeded in brisk and pleasant unison. “There are still some matters to be settled with Mr. Foreman, and he expects the letter the day that will fix his going to Glasgow. We are nothing less than a bundle of contradictions, child, we unsatisfied human folk. It was my own special desire and wish that the lad should verily plunge himself into some labor for the redemption of his land; now I have a drither at letting him go away to a mere, hard money-getting work, where little of either heart or head is needed.”

“Little heart, perhaps,” said Anne; “but, at least, the head must be very necessary, Mrs. Catherine.”

“No fear,” said Anne. “Archibald is able to stand the probation in every way, I trust, Mrs. Catherine; and it is but a means—it is not an end.”

“Ay,” said Mrs. Catherine. “The youth has a great stake.—He is a changed man, child, so far as we may form a judgment. Wherefore should I ever have doubted it? As if true prayers could lie unanswered before the Throne for ever!”

Jacky opened the door.

“If ye please—”

“What you elf? Can you no speak out?”

“It’s—it’s the man—the stranger”—Jacky remembered her former description of him, but scorned to repeat herself; “that came to the Tower with Mr. Foreman. If ye please, will I bring him in?”

“The jackal—the fuil that does Lord Gillravidge’s errands,” said Mrs. Catherine. “I am lothe that the feet of an unclean animal should come within this room, but what can I do, child? The library is Archie’s especial room, and if he comes in, I would like ill that he saw any of this evil crew.”

“He had better come here,” said Anne.

Mrs. Catherine made a motion of disgust.

“Hear you, you imp! Is he alone?”

“There’s a gentleman with him,” said Jacky. “No a grown-up man—just young like—but he’s a gentleman.”

“Bring them up here.”

Mrs. Catherine rose, drew up her stately figure, and remained standing. Mr. Fitzherbert bowed with agreeable condescension. The Honorable Giles was startled out of his laughter.—That strong, vigorous, stately old lady was not a person to be trifled with.

“Lord Gillravidge, Madam,” began Mr. Fitzherbert, “received your communication, and would have been most happy to have made your acquaintance personally, had it not been for the misfortune of a previous engagement. He has requested me to represent him—quite unworthy, certainly—but, having the honor to be acquainted with his sentiments, shall be glad to give any explanation that you desire.”

“I require no explanation from Lord Gillravidge,” said Mrs. Catherine, “except of his purpose concerning this unlawful deed he has done. Will he give it up of his own will, or will he be forced to do it? That is all I desire to know of Lord Gillravidge.”

Mr. Fitzherbert seated himself unbidden.

“Beg you will permit me to make a brief explanation. Lord Gillravidge has the tenderest regard for feelings—indulgent even to a little natural prejudice—means everything to be done in the most friendly manner. I assure you, Madam, I can explain everything with the greatest ease.”

The Honorable Giles was still standing. The lad began to have some perception that this was not a place for boyish mirth or derision. Anne silently invited him to be seated.

Mrs. Catherine grew still more stately and erect. She would not condescend to be angry.

“I desire no explanations at Lord Gillravidge’s hands. Will he throw the by-way open, or will he not?”

Mr. Fitzherbert smiled insinuatingly.

“Your kind indulgence, Madam—but for a moment. I shall take care not to exhaust your patience, knowing that ladies are not distinguished for patience, a good quality though—I beg your pardon, Madam. I am sorry to see I keep you standing.”

“Be not troubled, Sir,” said Mrs. Catherine, with bitter contempt; “but make yourself sure that a whole tribe like you would keep me in no position that did not please myself.”

“Fitz, Fitz!” whispered his young companion, reprovingly.

Mrs. Catherine turned round, and looked at the lad with grave concern, and some interest.

“His Lordship is willing to be perfectly tolerant,” continued Mr. Fitzherbert; “to give way to prejudices, and make allowance for angry feelings—and of course he expects to be as well used in return. ‘Do unto others,’—it is natural that he should look for the same in return.”

Mrs. Catherine waved her hand.

“A lady of refined tastes, such as I have the honor of addressing, must perfectly understand the peculiar feelings and excessive delicacy and retirement of my accomplished friend. Feels himself quite wounded by vulgar intrusion—shrinks, above all things, from public notice—extremely susceptible by nature, and of the most delicate constitution.”

Mrs. Catherine stamped her foot impatiently.

“Is it the Comus of yon crew of transformed cattle that the man ventures to profane such words upon?”

“Sorry to be so misapprehended,” said Mr. Fitzherbert, with an assumption of dignity. “Mere false reports, and vulgar misunderstanding of elegant leisure, and refined amusements—perfectly unfounded, I assure you, Madam. Lord Gillravidge should be judged by his peers, not by a set of barbarous rustics.”

“Be silent, Sir,” said Mrs. Catherine. “I understand well the people of this parish should be judged by their peers, and that is another race than yours. Beware how you lay ill names, in my presence, upon the natives of this soil!”

“Beg pardon, Madam, I am unfortunate in my subjects—had no idea you were specially interested in illiterate peasants. I beg you yourself will do his Lordship the honor of considering his position. I know him so intimately, that I can speak with confidence of his excessive delicacy and nervous refinement of constitution—quite remarkable, I assure you.”

“And what is all this to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Catherine. “Think you I care the value of a straw for the nerves of your lordling? Will he persist in this folly, or will he not? His constitution may be either iron or glass, besides, for any concern I have in the matter.”

Mrs. Catherine could bear this no longer—she was walking through the room in towering wrath and indignation.

“An English nobleman! an English cheat and sharper! enjoying his ill-gotten gains under a roof, that I marvel does not fall upon the reprobate cattle he has gathered below it. Vulgar intrusion! the passing-by of honorable men and women, that would not change the honest name of their birth, for the disgrace of his wealth and his sin. His private grounds! and who, if it were not the master-spirit of all iniquity, procured that the fair lands of Strathoran should ever brook him as their lord? You, your very self, pitiful animal as you are, the hired servant of this prosperous iniquity, doing its evil bidding, are scarce so abhorrent to decent folk as the master of you; the malignant tempting spirit, that led an innocent youth into the mire of sin and folly, that he might rob him of his inheritance; and now, can venture here, in the very face of me, who know his villanies, to set up for a man of delicate frame and tender mind, shrinking from the lawful passers-by of a peaceable parish; folk of lineage and blood, if that were all, an hundred-fold better than himself!”