“You will not take Jeanie upon you,” said the old woman--“I charge ye not to do it. The best thing her brother can have to steady him and keep him right, is the thought of Jeanie on his hands--Jeanie to look for him when he comes home. You’ll mind what I say. Meddling with nature is aye wrong; I’ve done it in my day, and I’ve repented. To make a’ sure, I’ve left a will, Edgar, giving everything to you--everything. What is it? My auld napery, and the auld, auld remains of my mother’s--most of it her spinning and mine. Give it to your aunts, Edgar, for they’ll think it their due; but keep a something--what are the auld rags worth to you?--keep a little piece to mind me by--a bit of the fine auld damask--so proud as I was of it once! I’ve nae rings nor bonny-dies, like a grand leddy, to keep you in mind of me.” She spoke so slowly that these words took her a long time to say, and they were interrupted by frequent pauses; but her voice had not the painful labouring which is so common at such a moment; it was very low, but still sweet and clear. Then she put out her hand, still so fine, and soft, and shapely, though the nervous force had gone out of it, upon Edgar’s arm. “I’m going where I’ll hear nothing of you, maybe, for long,” she said. “I would like to take all the news with me--for there’s them to meet yonder that will want to hear. There’s something in your eye, my bonnie man, that makes me glad. You’re no just as you were--there’s more light and more life. Edgar, you’re seeing your way?” Then, in the silence of the night, he told her all his tale. The curtains had been drawn aside, that she might see the moon shining over the hills. The clearest still night had succeeded many days of rain; the soft “hus-sh” of the loch lapping upon the beach was the only sound that broke the great calm. He sat between her and that vision of blue sky and silvered hill which was framed in by the window; by his side a little table, with a candle on it, which lighted one side of his face; behind him the shadowy dimness of the death-chamber; above him that gleam of midnight sky. He saw nothing but her face; she looked wistfully, fondly, as on a picture she might never see more, upon all the circumstances of this scene. He told her everything--more than he ever told to mortal after her--how he had been able to serve Clare, and how she had been saved from humiliation and shame; how he had met Gussy, and found her faithful; and how he was happy at the present moment, already loved and trusted, but happier still in the life that lay before him, and the woman who was to share it. She listened to every word with minute attention, following him with little exclamations, and all the interest of youth.