She heard them beating noisily about the thick vines which hung in wild profusion over the walls, her heart in her mouth. Frantically she tore the vines apart until she reached the bare wall behind. Then with breathless eagerness she pulled them together again, effectually concealing her presence from her pursuers. She pressed closer and closer against the cold stones, shivering apprehensively as they approached her hiding place. Suddenly she felt her support give way with a dull, creaking noise, and before she could recover her equilibrium, she found herself in a heap on the ground. She looked up in time to see the door through which she had fallen swing quickly into place and realized that unwittingly she had found an old and evidently unused entrance through the wall. Quickly rising to her feet she looked about her, then she gave a little cry of joy as she caught sight of the splashing fountains in the moonlight, for she knew she was inside the gardens belonging to the Duke of Athol. Eagerly she gazed about her at the leafy shrubberies, the massive oaks and beeches, the rose garden with its wealth of scented flowers. And for a brief moment she gave herself up to the painful reveries the familiar sights recalled to memory, while the tears of self-pity and heart-longing welled up in her gloomy eyes and flowed unrestrainedly down her cheeks. Presently, with a mirthless laugh of impatience, she dashed the tears angrily away and walked quickly up the grassy terrace toward the brilliantly lighted castle. Through the large window which looked over the low balcony she watched the incessant stream of people coming and going, while others walked aimlessly about the rooms or chatted in groups. For some time she crouched beside the low silver spruce, her eyes fixed upon the moving scenes within. Then with a start she recognized the golden-haired young lady who had given her the silver piece, surrounded by a group of cavaliers. She saw, too, with a pang of jealousy, the tenderness with which the poet greeted her and led her up to the haughty lady in purple. For some time she watched them in melancholy silence, a prey to conflicting emotions. By and by a group of ladies drifted out on the balcony. They were discussing the golden-haired girl, who had been introduced into their midst that evening, and the announcement of her marriage to the poet, Robert Burns. The gypsy, as she heard those words, uttered a smothered cry of amazement and horror, then sank half fainting on the grassy lawn, moaning like one stricken unto death. How long she lay there with senses dulled by pain she never knew. Presently, bitter recollection returned and with it an agony of fear that blanched her lips and made her limbs to quake, while grief and despair, like two grim sentinels, stood eager watch beside her. Slowly she staggered to her feet and turned her weary eyes once more upon the balcony. There was no one there. Listlessly she watched the gay figures