The night was very dark--dark as it is only in a perfectly rural country; and as the ringing silence closed about him, and he heard nothing but an occasional sigh from the river, or a faint flutter among the falling leaves, or the sound of his own progress upon the solitary road, Harry’s thoughts strayed away from his great miseries. Once or twice, a leaf in its descent blew across his face, and made his horse wince, and his heart beat--and then, there returned upon Harry his vague and inexpressible fear; but shut out from every _sight_, as he was, by this utter darkness, there rose up scenes of cheerful light before his imagination, beautiful to see: Uncle Sandy’s house at Ayr--the little parlour in Glasgow--the home in Allenders to which he was returning. A strange, dreamy pleasure stole over him--he forgot his sins, his misfortunes, his near and inevitable ruin--he thought of the home enjoyments which no man had known more largely--he thought of his little loving wife--of the passionate affection of Martha--of Rose’s gentler tenderness, and strange little poetic Lettie, with her wistful eyes. Poor Harry! his heart swelled with sudden relief as these came to his imagination: little domestic remembrances, looks, words, innocent mistakes and blunders, things which long ago brought pleasant, kindly laughter, or tender tears to the faces of them all. The reins fell loosely on his horse’s neck as he resigned himself to this repose; and the cottage firesides at Maidlin, and the boyish companions of Ayr, looked in, and interwove themselves with those fancies of home. Sometimes he tried to rouse himself, and a sharp pain shot through his heart as for a moment he remembered his real state and prospects; but still this singular dream returned upon him, and in his heart he thanked God! Meanwhile, in Allenders they sit and watch, looking out with dread and sickening pain into the darkness, praying till their hearts are again “like to break.” Sometimes Agnes kneels down by a chair, and hides her face, and utters a low unconscious cry; sometimes Martha walks heavily up or down the room, pausing in the midst, to think she hears in reality the sound which has mocked them in imagination all the night. “I am going to my own room--do not come to me,” said Martha, at last, in a half-whisper, and she left them without another word. But not to her own chamber to weep or pray, as they thought; Mysie nodding by the kitchen fire was suddenly startled by Martha’s appearance, with a rigid white face like death, and a cloak enveloping her whole person. With a slight scream, the drowsy girl started to her feet, scarcely knowing if she saw a human being or a spirit. “Mysie, you are bold,” said Martha, with such distinct rapidity that her words seemed to occupy no time. “I want the carriage instantly. I am going to seek my brother. Come, and show me what has to be done.” “I’ll waken John,” said the terrified Mysie.