Maud heeded her not, but began to sing in a wild but sweet voice,— “Who loves the bleak night wind, That roars ’twist earth and sky, Say, is its loud voice kind? Not I—not I. “That’s a brave song, but cheerless. I love the day and the sweet sunshine. Here’s another for thee, maiden; ’twill suit thy young heart: “Love’s like a rainbow, Why, maiden, why? It opens from the earth Up to the sky! A young heart’s passion Is all as bright As that purest arch Of Heaven’s own light. “Like ye that, young heart? Alas! ’Tis long since I learned the ditty. Hark ye, here is one more sad and sombre, for I see the tear-drop in your eye. Hark—hark:— “The storm bird may scream O’er the desolate moor, And the north wind blow wide The poor cottager’s door. The snow drift may level Mountain with plain, But the sunlight will come, And the birds sing again. But, oh! the fond heart Which one storm has swept o’er, Can ne’er know the peace, It rejoiced in before.” As the last sound of the poor creature’s voice ceased, Ada clasped her hands and uttered a cry of terror, for she heard without the low whistle which she had been taught by Gray to recognise as the signal of his return. CHAPTER XXXI. The Interview.—Jacob Gray’s Meditations.—The Slip of Paper.—The Nail.—The Guilty Conscience.—The Departure. For perhaps the space of a minute, Ada lost the power of action; but the stern necessity of doing something to save the poor creature from the death which Jacob Gray’s fears would, she doubted not, induce him to put her to, braced the nerves of the young girl. She took Maud by the arm, and looking her earnestly in the face, she said,— “What was the name of him you loved?” Maud pressed her hand upon her brow for a moment as if striving to comprehend the question; then she replied,— “His name was William Heriot.” “Then follow me, and speak not for his sake, as you hold his memory dear.” “To the world’s end! To the world’s end!” said Maud. Ada heard the outer door now close, and she was sure that Gray was in the passage. He might, or he might not, enter the room in which she and Maud were, the door of which was within a few paces of the steps. Oh, how dreadful to poor Ada were the few short, but to her awful moments that elapsed before she felt convinced that Gray had passed the door, he always trod slowly and stealthily even in that lone house, for caution and suspicion had grown so habitual with him, that even in security he could not shake off the actions which rendered those feelings manifest. It was difficult, therefore, for Ada to trace his footsteps, or come to any positive conclusion as to what part of the house he had proceeded towards. One thing only she could feel certain of from the duration of time, and that was, that the immediate danger of his entering the room in which she and Maud were was past, unless he were lingering in the passage, which she had never yet known him to do.