I was, as I say, sitting over my hut-fire, with the strangest medley in my mind--rosy Laura Ansdell--now galloping across the moor--now lying still and colourless in her coffin; and another face, about the same age, though I suppose it would not be considered nearly as pretty, with the scarlet hood drawn over it; pallid with cold, yet with such a soft light in the eyes, such a trembling sweetness about the mouth! She must be a very happy-minded creature. I hardly ever saw her, or was with her any length of time, that she did not look the picture of content and repose. She always puts me in mind of Dallas's pet song, when we were boys--“Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane."= ```"She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, ````And guileless simplicity marks her its ain, ```And far be the villain, divested o' feelin', ````Wha'd blight in its bud the sweet Flower o' Dunblane."= I say amen to that. It was--to return, for the third time, to simple narrative--somewhere about eleven o'clock, when a man on horseback stopped at my hut-door. I thought it might be a summons to the Ansdells, but it was not. It was the groom from Rockmount, bringing me a letter. Her letter--her little letter! I ought to burn it--but, as yet, I cannot--and where it is kept, it will be quite safe. For reasons, I shall copy it here. “Dear Sir,-- “My father has met with a severe accident. Dr. Black is from home, and there is no other doctor in the neighbourhood upon whom we can depend. Will you pardon the liberty I am taking, and come to us at once? “Yours truly, “Theodora Johnston.” There it lies, brief and plain; a firm heart guided the shaking hand. Few things show character in a woman more than her handwriting: this, when steady, must be remarkably neat, delicate, and clear. I did well to put it by--I may never get another line. In speaking to Jack, I learnt that his master and one of the young ladies had been out to dinner--that master had insisted on driving home himself, probably from Jack's incompetence, but he was sober enough now, poor lad!--that, coming through the fir-wood, one of the wheels got fixed in a deep rut, and the phaeton was overturned. I asked, was any one hurt--besides Mr. Johnston? “Miss Johnston was, a little.” “Which Miss Johnston?” “Miss Penelope, sir.” “No one else?” “No, sir.” I had evidence enough of all this before, but just then, at that instant, it went out of my mind in a sudden oppression of fear. The facts of the case gained, I called Jack in to the fire, and went into my bed-room to settle with myself what was best to be done.