The solitary candle had been lighted, and placed on the table. It threw a painful illumination upon Harry’s perfectly colourless face, as he stood in the middle of the room, with an unsteady swing in his movements. Agnes had left the arm-chair to him, but still he stood by the table--while Rose, with a paleness almost as great as his upon her face, went about painfully arranging things that needed no arrangement, and Martha sat rigid in her chair. “I say, what is it, Lettie?” repeated Harry. “Nothing, Harry--only you’ve torn your coat,” said Violet. She showed it to him--some one had seized his skirt apparently, to detain him, and a great rent was visible. It brought a sudden flush to the damp face of poor Harry, but the flush was of defiance and anger. He struck Violet with his open hand, and exclaimed impatiently, “Get away, what business have _you_ with that?” It was a very slight blow--and Violet shrank away in silence out of the room; but a deep red burning colour flushed over Martha’s faded face, and with a quick impulsive start, she rose from her chair. “Harry!” Her harsh hoarse voice seemed to sober the unhappy lad. He looked round him for a moment on those other pale faces, and on the grieved and embarrassed Cuthbert, with the defiant stare which he had tried to maintain before; but as his eyes turned to Martha, and to the deep and painful colour of shame and anguish on her face, poor Harry’s courage fell. He did not speak--he glided into the vacant chair, and suddenly abandoning his poor design of concealment covered his face with his hands. “Harry is not well--he is not strong poor fellow,” said Agnes almost sobbing, “get a cup of tea for him, Rose. Martha, sit down.” Martha obeyed mechanically. There was a struggle in the face of poor Harry’s passionate sister. The fierce impatience of her anger seemed melting away--melting into that utter despondency and hopelessness--that deep humiliation, which with the second sight that sometimes adds new pangs to sorrow, saw that to hope was useless, and yet in the depths did only cling the closer to this impossible hope. Poor Harry! Martha was not given to weeping, but then she could have wept--such desperate burning tears, as only come out of the depths. Cuthbert felt that if he had helped to increase their pain by being a spectator of this scene, he would but add to it by hastening immediately away. “I shall have a long walk,” he said, with forced ease, “and I think I must now crave your last message for Ayr, Miss Muir. What am I to say to your uncle?” “That you left us--Nay,” said Martha, restraining herself with a great effort, and glancing over to Harry with a strange yearning look of grief, “say little to the old man, Mr. Charteris. He knows how he would wish us to be in his own gentle heart--and it is best to leave it so; say we were well--and now we must not detain you. Harry, have you anything to say to my uncle?”