Was it to rest that Lady Margaret retired?—No—to the tortures of suspense, of dread, of agony unutterable. A thousand times she started from her bed:—she fancied that voices approached the door—that shrieks rent the air; and, if she closed her eyes, visions of murder floated before her distracted mind, and pictured dreams too horrible for words half suffocated by the fever and delirium of her troubled imagination. She threw up the sash of her window, and listened attentively to every distant sound. The moon had risen in silvery brightness above the dark elm trees; it lighted, with its beams, the deep clear waters of Elle. The wind blew loud at times, and sounded mournfully, as it swept through the whispering leaves of the trees, over the dark forest and distant moors. A light appeared, for one moment, near the wood, and then was lost, Lady Margaret, as if palsied by terror, remained fixed and breathless on the spot;—a step approached the door;—it was the step of one stealing along, as if anxious no one should hear it pass. Again, all was silent:—so silent that the grave itself had not been more tranquil, and the dead could not have looked more pale, more calm, more still, than Lady Margaret! But how was that silence broken? and how that calm disturbed?—By the shrieks of an agonized parent—by the burning tears of a heart-broken father—by the loud unrestrained clamours of the menial train; and that proud mansion, so lately the seat of gaiety, whose lighted porticos and festive halls had echoed to the song of joy and revelry, presented now a scene of lamentation, terror and despair.—The heir of Altamonte was dead—the hope so fondly cherished was cut off—the idol, upon whose existence so many hearts were fixed, lay in his gilded cradle and costly attire, affording a lesson impressive although every day repeated, yet unheeded although impressive,—that it is the nature of man to rest his most sanguine expectations upon the most frail and uncertain of all his possessions. The women who had been employed to attend upon him were weeping around him. His nurse alone appeared utterly insensible to his fate,—her eyes were fixed,—her lips motionless,—she obeyed every command that was given; but, when left to herself, she continued in the same sullen mood. Some called her hard and unfeeling, as in loud accents they bewailed the dire calamity that had fallen on their master’s house; but there were others who knew that this apparent insensibility was the effect of a deeper feeling—of a heart that could not recover its loss—of a mind totally overthrown.