But what Mr. Macalister could have shown plainly, remained for ever unknown to Martha; for at that moment, a great commotion arose in the outer office, and the door of this room thrown violently open, disclosed the ghost-like face, inflamed with fury, of Miss Jean Calder, who, holding Lindsay’s clerk at arm’s length, with her long fingers clutched upon his shoulder, had thrown the door open with her disengaged hand, and was about to enter the room. Involuntarily, Alexander Muir drew back his chair, and Martha started. Like a visitant from the dead, the old woman, with a great stride, entered among them. Her tall, angular frame tottered, and her head shook, half with rage and excitement, half with the natural palsied motion of her extreme age. She was dressed in a large woollen shawl, once bright tartan, now as dim in its complexion as it was thin in its texture, and a large bonnet, standing out stiffly like a fan round her ghost face, which was encircled under it by a stiff ruff of yellow lace. Miss Jean made one great step forward, and seizing upon Alexander Muir, shook him till herself was so thoroughly shaken that she scarcely could stand. “Did I no tell ye--did I no warn ye, Sandy Muir, that I would pit my fit yet on his turf, that thought I was auld, and wished me dead, and had his covetous e’e on my siller? I’m saying did I no tell ye? And I’ll tell ye what, strange folk,” said Miss Jean, turning round with a glittering smile of malice, “I’m glad the reprobate’s dead--that am I!--for now he’ll keep nae honest body out of their ain.” Martha started from her seat with a violent passion--mingled of burning grief and fury--in her face. Her hand clenched, her form dilated--you would have thought her about to strike down at her feet the incarnate demon, whose laugh of shrill malicious triumph rang over Harry’s grave; and, for an instant, a perfect tempest--an overwhelming storm, to whose rage everything would have been possible--possessed Martha, like another kindred demon. Then she suddenly sat down, and clasping her hands together, leaned them on her knee, drawing up her person, and stretching out her arms to their full length as if the pain were some relief to her; for years of endurance had not quenched the passionate, fiery nature out of Martha’s soul. “He’s in the hands of God--he’s entered the life where no man makes shipwreck!” said Uncle Sandy, rising up. “Bairns, have pity upon this miserable woman, who kens not the day that her soul may be required of her. Curse her not, Martha; curse her not. And woman, I say, blessed are the dead--blessed are the young graves--blessed is the very pestilence and sword, that preserves innocent bairns from living to be evened with the like of you!” And, with a visible tremble of indignation shaking his whole frame, the old man sat down, unwitting that the curse he had forbidden Martha to speak, was implied in his own denunciation.