Poor little Agnes! she could not believe that Martha’s “speaking to him” would have no effect. In half an hour, he came down stairs, dressed, and considerably subdued, though still with an excitement only too easily perceptible. “Where’s John with the carriage?” exclaimed Harry. “Why does that fellow always keep us waiting? why is he not at the door?” and he rang the bell violently. “You are much too late, and they are punctilious people; I beg you will not go to-night. It is easy to send an apology,” said Martha, who was calmer now than she had been through all her time of hope. “It is this night, and no other, that I intend to go,” said Harry; “and I am not inclined to suffer any more dictation. What’s the matter, Agnes? why do you make her cry, Martha? Must I take her away with red eyes, all for your pleasure? Tell John to bring round the carriage instantly--instantly, do you hear? he has kept his mistress waiting long enough already.” And as the maid withdrew, startled and astonished, Harry himself went to the door, and stood upon the threshold, waiting for John. “You’re not angry, Martha,” pleaded poor little Agnes; “he does not know what he is saying. And never mind sitting up, it would only grieve you; I must try to take care of poor Harry myself to-night.” Martha made few demonstrations, but she put her arm round the little wife now, and kissed the cheek upon which the tears were still wet. This caress nearly overcame Agnes, but with a strong effort, she wiped her eyes, and went away. Drearily passed that evening. A heavy shower came on as it darkened, and all the night through beat upon the leaves, so that Lettie, holding her breath as she learned her lessons, fancied that footsteps were travelling round and round the house--continually, without pause or intermission, round and round. And the wind whistled with a little, desolate, shrill cry, about the silent walls, and the burn ran fast and full into the river. Every sound without became distinctly audible in the extreme quietness, and other sounds which did not exist at all, stole in, imagined, upon their strained ears. Sounds of carriage-wheels, which never advanced, but always rumbled on at a distance, shrill cries of voices hovering in the air, footsteps upon the stair, footsteps without--it was a dreary night! And when it became late, and it was full time for Harry’s return, Martha stole down stairs to the lower room, and opened the window, and stood by it in the dark, watching for their carriage-wheels. The jasmine rustled on the walls, with an early star of white specking its dark luxuriance--alas! those jasmine flowers! Martha plucked this half-opened one hastily, and threw it away--she could not bear its fragrance. And Rose crept after her, and sat upon a chair at the window, leaning her throbbing brow on Martha’s arm: “Hush! I hear them,” said Martha; it was nothing but this imagined sound which had rung through all the night.